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Waheenee  and  Her  Husband,  Son-of-a-Star 


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WAHEENEE 

AN  INDIAN  GIRL’S  STORY 


TOLD  BY  HERSELF 


-TO  — 
Wy/ii 


GILBERT  L.  WILSON,  Ph.D 


Field  collector  for  the  American  Museum  of  Natural 
History  of  New  York  City.  Professor  of  Anthropology, 
Macalester  College. 

Author  of  "Myths  of  the  Red  Children,”  “Goodbird, 
the  Indian,”  "The  Agriculture  of  the  Hidatsa  Indians,” 
“Indian  Hero  Tales.” 


ILLUSTRATED 

BY 

FREDERICK  N.  WILSON 


Webb  Publishing  Company 
St.  Paul,  Minnesota 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 

IiY 

WEBB  PUBLISHING  CO. 

W 1 


FOREWORD 

The  Hidatsas,  called  Minitaris  by  the  Man- 
ctans,  are  a Siouan  tribe  and  speak  a language 
closely  akin  to  that  of  the  Crows.  Wars  with 
the  Dakota  Sioux  forced  them  to  ally  themselves 
with  the  Mandans,  whose  culture  they  adopted. 
Lewis  and  Clark  found  the  two  tribes  living  in 
five  villages  at  the  mouth  of  the  Knife  river,  in 
1804. 

In  1832  the  artist  Catlin  visited  the  Five  Vil- 
lages, as  they  were  called.  A year  later  Maxi- 
milian of  Wiet  visited  them  with  the  artist 
Bodmer.  Several  score  canvasses,  the  work  of 
the  two  artists,  are  preserved  to  us 

Smallpox  nearly  exterminated  the  two  tribes 
in  1837-8.  The  survivors,  a mere  remnant,  re- 
moved to  Fort  Berthold  reservation  where  they 
still  dwell. 

In  1908,  with  my  brother,  an  artist,  I was 
sent  by  Dr.  Clark  Wissler,  Curator  of  Anthro- 
pology, American  Museum  of  Natural  History, 
to  begin  cultural  studies  among  the  Hidatsas. 
This  work,  continued  through  successive  sum- 
mers for  ten  years,  is  but  now  drawing  to  a 
close. 


3 


4 


WA I I EE  NEE 


During  these  years  my  faithful  interpreter 
and  helper  has  been  Edward  Goodbird,  grand- 
son of  Small  Ankle,  a chief  of  the  Hidatsas  in  the 
trying  years  following  the  terrible  smallpox  win- 
ter; and  my  principal  informants  have  been 
Goodbird’s  mother,  Waheenee-wea,  or  Buffalo- 
Bird  Woman,  and  her  brother,  Wolf  Chief. 

The  stories  in  this  book  were  told  me  by 
Buffalo-Bird  Woman.  A few  told  in  mere  out- 
line, have  been  completed  from  information  given 
by  Wolf  Chief  and  others. 

Illustrations  are  by  my  brother,  from  studies 
made  by  him  on  the  reservation.  They  have 
been  carefully  compared  with  the  Catlin  and 
Bodmer  sketches.  Not  a few  are  redrawn  from 
cruder  sketches  by  Goodbird,  himself  an  artist 
of  no  mean  ability. 

Acknowledgment  is  made  of  the  courtesy 
of  Curator  Wissler,  whose  permission  makes  pos- 
sible the  publishing  of  this  book. 

Indians  have  the  gentle  custom  of  adopting 
very  dear  friends  by  relationship  terms.  By 
such  adoption  Buffalo-Bird  Woman  is  my  moth- 
er. It  is  with  real  pleasure  that  I offer  to  young 
readers  these  stories  from  the  life  of  my  Indian 
mother. 


G.  L.  W. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

I A Little  Indian  Girl 7 

II  Winter  Camp 15 

III  The  Buffalo-skin  Cap 21 

IV  Story  Telling 29 

V Life  in  an  Earth  Lodge 44 

VI  Childhood  Games 54 

VII  Kinship,  Clan  Cousins 66 

VIII  Indian  Dogs 73 

IX  Training  a Dog 81 

X Learning  to  Work 90 

XI  Picking  June  Berries 99 

XII  The  Corn  Husking 109 

XIII  Marriage 117 

XIV  A Buffalo  Hunt 127 

XV  The  Hunting  Camp 138 

XVI  Homeward  Bound 149 

XVII  An  Indian  Papoose 156 

XVIII  The  Voyage  Home 165 

Glossary  of  Indian  Words 177 

Explanatory  Notes 178 

Supplement: — 

How  to  Make  an  Indian  Camp 183 

Hints  to  Young  Campers 187 

Indian  Cooking 188 

Editor’s  Note 189 


5 


WAHEENEE 

FIRST  CHAPTER 

A LITTLE  INDIAN  GIRL 

I was  born  in  an  earth  lodge  by  the  mouth 
of  the  Knife  river,  in  what  is  now  North  Dakota, 
three  years  after  the  smallpox  winter. 

The  Mandans  and  my  tribe,  the  Hidatsas, 
had  come  years  before  from  the  Heart  river;  and 
they  had  built  the  Five  Villages,  as  we  called 
them,  on  the  banks  of  the  Knife,  near  the  place 
where  it  enters  the  Missouri. 

Here  were  bottom  lands  for  our  cornfields 
and  cottonwood  trees  for  the  beams  and  posts 
of  our  lodges.  The  dead  wood  that  floated  down 
either  river  would  help  keep  us  in  firewood,  the 
old  women  thought.  Getting  fuel  in  a prairie 
country  was  not  always  easy  work. 


7 


8 


WAHEENEE 


When  I was  ten  days  old  my  mother  made  a 
feast  and  asked  an  old  man  named  Nothing-but- 
Water  to  give  me  a name.  He  called  me.  Good 
Way.  “For  I pray  the  gods,”  he  said,  “that 
our  little  girl  may  go  through  life  by  a good  way ; 
that  she  may  grow  up  a good  woman,  not  quarrel- 
ing nor  stealing;  and  that  she  may  have  good 
luck  all  her  days.” 

I was  a rather  sickly  child  and  my  father 
wished  after  a time  to  give  me  a new  name. 

We  Indians  thought 
that  sickness  was 
from  the  gods.  A 
child’s  name  was 
given  him  as  a kind 
of  prayer.  A new 
name,  our  medicine 
men  thought,  often 
moved  the  gods  to 
help  a sick  or  weakly 
child. 

So  my  father  gave 
me  another  name, 
Waheenee -we  a,1  or 
Buffalo -Bird  Wo- 
man. In  ourHidatsa 
language,  waheenee,  means  cowbird,  or  buffalo- 
bird,  as  this  little  brown  bird  is  known  in  the  buf- 
falo country;  wea,  meaning  girl  or  woman,  is  often 
added  to  a girl’s  name  that  none  mistake  it  for  the 
name  of  a boy.  I do  not  know  why  my  father  chose 
this  name.  His  gods,  I know, were  birds ; and  these, 
we  thought,  had  much  holy  power.  Perhaps  the 
buffalo-birds  had  spoken  to  him  in  a dream. 

1Wa  hee'  nee  we'  a 


A LITTLE  INDIAN  GIRL 


9 


I am  still  called  by  the  name  my  father  gave 
me;  and,  as  I have  lived  to  be  a very  old  woman, 
I think  it  has  brought  me  good  luck  from  the 
gods. 

My  mother’s  name  was  Weahtee .i  She  was 
one  of  four  sisters,  wives  of  my  father;  her  sis- 
ters’ names  were  Red  Blossom,  Stalk-of-Corn, 
and  Strikes-Many  Woman.  I was  taught  to 
call  all  these  my  mothers.  Such  was  our  Indian 
custom.  I do  not  think  my  mother’s  sisters 
could  have  been  kinder  to  me  if  I had  been  an 
own  daughter. 

I remember  nothing  of  our  life  at  the  Five 
Villages;  but  my  great-grandmother, White  Corn, 
told  me  something  of  it.  I used  to  creep  into 
her  bed  when  the  nights  were  cold  and  beg  for 
stories. 

“The  Mandans  lived  in  two  of  the  villages, 
the  Hidatsas  in  three,”  she  said.  “Around  each 
village,  excepting  on  the  side  that  fronted  the 
river,  ran  a fence  of  posts,  with  spaces  between 
for  shooting  arrows.  In  front  of  the  row  of 
posts  was  a deep  ditch. 

“We  had  corn  aplenty  and  buffalo  meat  to 
eat  in  the  Five  Villages,  and  there  were  old  peo- 
ple and  little  children  in  every  lodge.  Then 
smallpox  came.  More  than  half  of  my  tribe 
died  in  the  smallpox  winter.  Of  the  Mandans 
only  a few  families  were  left  alive.  All  the  old 
people  and  little  children  died.” 

I was  sad  when  I heard  this  story.  ‘Did 
any  of  your  family  die,  grandmother?”  I asked. 

1We'  ah  tee 


10 


WAHEENEE 


“Yes,  my  husband,  Yellow  Elk,  died.  So 
many  were  the  dead  that  there  was  no  time  to 
put  up  burial  scaffolds;  so  his  clan  fathers  bore 

Yellow  Elk  to  the  bury- 
ing ground  and  laid  him 
on  the  grass  with  logs 
over  him  to  keep  off  the 
wolves. 

“That  night  the  vil- 
lagers heard  a voice  call- 
ing to  them  from  the 
burying  ground.  ‘ A-ha - 
hey!'  I have  waked  up. 
Come  for  me.’ 

‘“It  is  a ghost,’  the 
villagers  cried ; and  they 
feared  to  go. 

“Some  brave  young 
men,  listening,  thought ' 
they  knew  Yellow  Elk’s  voice.  They  went  to 
the  burying  ground  and  called,  ‘Are  you  alive, 
Yellow  Elk?’ 

“‘Yes,’  he  answered,  ‘I  have  waked  up!’ 

“The  young  men  rolled  the  logs  from  his 
body  and  bore  Yellow  Elk  to  the  village;  he 
was  too  weak  to  walk.” 

This  story  of  Yellow  Elk  I thought  wonderful; 
but  it  scared  me  to  know  that  my  great-grand- 
father had  been  to  the  ghost  land  and  had  come 
back  again. 

Enemies  gave  our  tribes  much  trouble  after 
the  smallpox  year,  my  grandmother  said.  Bands 

XA  ha  hey' 


A LITTLE  INDIAN  GIRL 


11 


of  Sioux  waylaid  hunting  parties  or  came  prowl- 
ing around  our  villages  to  steal  horses.  Our 
chiefs,  Mandan  and  Hidatsa,  held  a council 
and  decided  to  remove  farther  up  the  Missouri. 
“We  will  build  a new  village,”  they  agreed, 
“and  dwell  together  as  one  tribe.” 

The  site  chosen  for  the  new  village  was  a 
place  called  Like-a-Fishhook  Point,  a bit  of 
high  bench  land  that  jutted  into  a bend  of  the 
Missouri.  We  set  out  for  our  new  home  in  the 
spring,  when  I was  four  years  old.  I remember 
nothing  of  our  march  thither.  My  mothers 
have  told  me  that  not  many  horses  were  then 
owned  by  the  Hidatsas,  and  that  robes,  pots, 
axes,  bags  of  corn  and 
other  stuff  were 
packed  on  the  backs  of 
women  or  on  travois 
dragged  by  dogs. 

The  march  was 
led  by  the  older 
chiefs  and  medicine 
men.  My  grand- 
father was  one  of  them.  His  name  was  Missouri 
River.  On  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  hung  his 
medicines,  or  sacred  objects,  two  human  skulls 
wrapped  in  a skin.  They  were  believed  to  be 
the  skulls  of  thunder  birds,  who,  before  they  died, 
had  changed  themselves  into  Indians.  After  the 
chiefs,  in  a long  line,  came  warriors,  women,  and 
children.  Young  men  who  owned  ponies  were 
sent  ahead  to  hunt  meat  for  the  evening  camp. 
Others  rode  up  and  down  the  line  to  speed  the 


12 


WAHEENEE 


stragglers  and  to  see  that  no  child  strayed  off  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  our  enemies,  the  Sioux. 

The  earth  lodges  that  the  Mandans  and 
Hidatsas  built,  were  dome-shaped  houses  of 
posts  and  beams,  roofed  over  with  willows-and- 
grass,  and  earth ; but  every  family  owned  a tepee, 
or  skin  tent,  for  use  when  hunting  or  traveling. 
Our  two  tribes  camped  in  these  tents  the  first 
summer  at  Like-a-Fishhook  Point,  while  they 
cleared  ground  for  cornfields. 

The  labor  of  clearing  was  done  chiefly  by 
the  women,  although  the  older  men  helped. 
Young  men  were  expected  to  be  off  fighting  our 
enemies  or  hunting  buffaloes.  There  was  need 
for  hunting.  Our  small,  first  year’s  fields  could 
yield  no  large  crops;  and,  to  keep  from  going 
hungry  in  the  winter  months,  we  must  lay  in  a 
good  store  of  dried  meat.  We  owned  few  guns 
in  the  tribe  then;  and  hunting  buffaloes  with 
arrows  was  anything  but  sport.  Only  young 
men,  strong  and  active,  made  good  hunters. 

My  mothers  were  hard-working  women,  and 
began  their  labor  of  clearing  a field  almost  as 
soon  as  camp  was  pitched.  My  grandmother. 
Turtle,  chose  the  ground  for  the  field.  It  was 
in  a piece  of  bottom  land  that  lay  along  the 
river,  a little  east  of  the  camp.  My  mothers 
had  brought  seed  corn  from  the  Five  Villages; 
and  squash,  bean  and  sunflower  seed. 

I am  not  sure  that  they  were  able  to  plant 
much  corn  the  first  season.  I know  they  planted 
some  beans  and  a few  squashes.  I am  told 
that  when  the  squash  harvest  came  in,  my 


A LITTLE  INDIAN  GIRL 


13 


grandmother  picked  out  a long  green-striped 
squash  for  me,  for  a doll  baby.  I carried  this 
about  on  my  back,  snuggled  under  my  buffalo- 
calf  robe,  as  I had  seen  Indian  mothers  carry 
their  babies.  At  evening  I wrapped  my  dolly 
in  a bit  of  skin  and  put  her  to  bed. 

Our  camp  on  a summer’s  evening  was  a 
cheerful  scene.  At  this  hour,  fires  burned 
before  most  of  the  tepees; and,  as  the  women  had 
ended  their  day’s  la- 
bors, there  was  much 
visiting  from  tent  to 
tent.  Here  a family 
sat  eating  their  eve- 
ning meal.  Yonder,  a 
circle  of  old  men, 
cross-legged  or  squat- 
on-heels  in  the  fire- 
light, joked  and  told 
stories.  From  a big 
tent  on  one  side  of 
the  camp  came  the  tum-tum  tum-tum  of  a drum. 
We  had  dancing  almost  every  evening  in  those 
good  days. 

But  for  wee  folks  bedtime  was  rather  early. 
In  my  father’s  family,  it  was  soon  after  sunset. 
My  mothers  had  laid  dry  grass  around  the 
tent  wall,  and  on  this  had  spread  buffalo  skins 
for  beds.  Small  logs,  laid  along  the  edge  of 
the  beds,  caught  any  sparks  from  the  fireplace; 
for,  when  the  nights  grew  chill,  my  mothers 
made  their  fire  in  the  tepee.  My  father  often 
sat  and  sang  me  to  sleep  by  the  firelight. 


14 


WAHEENEE 


He  had  many  songs.  Some  of  them  were 
for  little  boys:  others  were  for  little  girls.  Of 
the  girls’  songs,  there  was  one  I liked  very 
much;  it  was  something  like  this: 

My  sister  asks  me  to  go  out  and  stretch  the  smoke-flap. 

My  armlets  and  earrings  shine! 

I go  through  the  woods  where  the  elm  trees  grow. 

Why  do  the  berries  not  ripen? 

What  berries  do  you  like  best? — the  red?  the  blue? 

This  song  I used  to  try  to  sing  to  my  squash 
doll,  but  I found  it  hard  to  remember  the  words. 


SECOND  CHAPTER 

WINTER  CAMP 

The  medicine  men  of  the  two  tribes  had  laid 
out  the  plan  of  our  new  village  when  they  made 
camp  in  the  spring.  There  was  to  be  an  open 
circle  in  the  center,  with  the  lodges  of  the  chiefs 
and  principal  men  opening  upon  it;  and  in  the 
center  of  the  circle  was  to  stand  the  Mandans’ 
sacred  corral.  This  corral  was  very  holy. 
Around  it  were  held  solemn  dances,  when  young 
men  fasted  and  cut  their  flesh  to  win  favor  of 
the  gods. 

The  early  planning  of  the  village  by  our 
medicine  men  made  it  possible  for  a woman  to 
choose  a site  and  begin  building  her  earth  lodge. 
Few  lodges,  however,  were  built  the  first  sum- 
mer. My  mothers  did  not  even  begin  building 
theirs;  but  they  got  ready  the  timbers  with 
which  to  frame  it. 


15 


16 


W AH RENEE 


Going  often  into  the  woods  with  their  dogs 
to  gather  firewood,  they  kept  a sharp  lookout 
for  trees  that  would  make  good  beams  or  posts; 
these  they  felled  later,  and  let  lie  to  cure.  For 
rafters,  they  cut  long  poles;  and  from  cotton- 
wood trunks  they  split  puncheons  for  the  slop- 
ing walls.  In  olden  days  puncheons  were  split 
with  wedges  of  buffalo  horn.  A core  of  hard 
ash  wood  was  driven  into  the  hollow  horn  to 
straighten  it  and  make  it  solid. 

Autumn  came;  my  mothers  harvested 
their  rather  scanty  crops;  and,  with  the  moon 
of  Yellow  Leaves,  we  struck  tents  and  went  into 
winter  camp.  My  tribe  usually  built  their  win- 
ter village  down  in  the  thick  woods  along  the 
Missouri,  out  of  reach  of  the  cold  prairie  winds. 
It  was  of  earth  lodges,  like  those  of  our  summer 
village,  but  smaller  and  more  rudely  put  to- 
gether. We  made  camp  this  winter  not  very  far 
from  Like-a-Fishhook  Point. 

My  father’s  lodge,  or,  better,  my  mothers’ 
lodge, — for  an  earth  lodge  belonged  to  the  women 
who  built  it — was  more  carefully  constructed 
than  most  winter  lodges  were.  Earth  was  heaped 
thick  on  the  roof  to  keep  in  the  warmth;  and 
against  the  sloping  walls  without  were  leaned 
thorny  rosebushes,  to  keep  the  dogs  from  climb- 
ing up  and  digging  holes  in  the  roof.  The  fire- 
place was  a round,  shallow  pit,  with  edges  plast- 
ered smooth  with  mud.  Around  the  walls  stood 
the  family  beds,  six  of  them,  covered  each  with 
an  old  tent  skin  on  a frame  of  poles. 


WINTER  CAMP 


17 


A winter  lodge  was  never  very  warm;  and,  if 
there  were  old  people  or  children  in  the  family, 
a second,  or  “twin  lodge,”  was  often  built.  This 
was  a small  lodge  with  roof  peaked  like  a tepee, 
but  covered  with  bark  and  earth.  A covered 
passage  led  from  it  to  the  main  lodge. 

The  twin  lodge  had  two  uses.  In  it  the 
grandparents  or  other  feeble  or  sickly  members 
of  the  family  could  sit,  snug  and  warm,  on  the 
coldest  day;  and  the  children  of  the  household 
used  it  as  a playhouse. 

I can  just  remember  playing  in  our  twin 
lodge,  and  making  little  feasts  with  bits  of  boiled 
tongue  or  dried  berries  that  my  mothers  gave  me. 
I did  not  often  get  to  go  out  of  doors;  for  I was 
not  a strong  little  girl,  and,  as  the  winter  was  a 
hard  one,  my  mothers  were  at  pains  to  see  that 
I was  kept  warm.  I had  a tiny  robe,  made  of 
a buffalo-calf  skin,  that  I drew  over  my  little 
buckskin  dress;  and  short  girls’  leggings  over 
my  ankles.  In  the  twin  lodge,  as  in  the  larger 
earth  lodge,  the  smoke  hole  let  in  plenty  of  fresh  air. 

My  mothers  had  a scant  store  of  corn  and 
beans,  and  some  strings  of  dried  squashes;  and 
they  had  put  by  two  or  three  sacks  of  dried 
prairie  turnips.  A mess  of  these  turnips  was 
boiled  now  and  then  and  was  very  good.  Once, 
I remember,  we  had  a pudding,  dried  prairie 
turnips  pounded  to  a meal  and  boiled  with  dried 
June  berries.  Such  a pudding  was  sweet,  and 
we  children  were  fond  of  it. 

To  eke  out  our  store  of  corn  and  keep  the 
pot  boiling,  my  father  hunted  much  of  the  time. 


18 


WAHEENEE 


To  hunt  deer  he  left  the  lodge  before  daybreak, 
on  snowshoes,  if  the  snow  was  deep.  He  had  a 
flintlock  gun,  a smoothbore  with  a short  barrel. 
The  wooden  stock  was  studded  with  brass  nails. 

For  shot  he  used  slugs,  bits 
of  lead  which  he  cut  from 
a bar,  and  chewed  to  make 
round  like  bullets.  Powder 
and  shot  were  hard  to  get 
in  those  days. 

Buffaloes  were  not 
much  hunted  in  winter, 
when  they  were  likely  to 
be  poor  in  flesh;  but  my 
father  and  his  friends  made 
one  hunt  before  midwinter 
set  in.  Buffaloes  were  hunted  with  bow  and 
arrows,  from  horseback.  Only  a fleet  pony 
could  overtake  a buffalo,  and  there  were  not 
many  such  owned  in  the  tribe.  We  thought  a 
man  rich  who  had  a good  buffalo  horse. 

My  father  stabled  his  horses  at  night  in  our 
lodge,  in  a little  corral  fenced  off  against  the 
wall.  “I  do  not  want  the  Sioux  to  steal  them,” 
he  used  to  say.  In  the  morning,  after  break- 
fast, he  drove  them  out  upon  the  prairie,  to  pas- 
ture, but  brought  them  in  again  before  sunset. 
In  very  cold  weather  my  mothers  cut  down  young 
cottonwoods  and  let  our  horses  browse  on  the 
tender  branches. 

Early  in  the  spring  our  people  returned  to 
Like-a-Fishhook  Point  and  took  up  again  the 
labor  of  clearing  and  planting  fields.  Each  fam- 


WINTER  CAMP 


19 


ily  had  its  own  field,  laid  out  in  the  timbered 
bottom  lands  along  the  Missouri,  if  possible,  in 
a rather  open  place  where  there  were  no  large 
trees  to  fell. 

Felling  trees  and  grubbing  out  bushes  were 
done  with  iron  tools,  axes  and  heavy 
hoes,  gotten  of  the  traders. 

I have  heard  that  in 
old  times  my  tribe 
used  stone  axes,  but  I 
never  saw  them  my- 
self. Our  family  field 
was  larger  than  any 
owned  by  our  neigh- 
bors; and  my  mothers 
were  at  pains  to  add  to 
it,  for  they  had  many 
mouths  to  feed.  My 
grandmother,  Turtle,  helped  them,  rising  at  the 
first  sound  of  the  birds  to  follow  my  mothers  to 
the  field. 


t 

i 


) 


Turtle  was  old-fashioned  in  her  ways  and  did 
not  take  kindly  to  iron  tools.  “I  am  an  Indian,” 
she  would  say,  “I  use  the  ways  my  fathers  used.” 
Instead  of  grubbing  out  weeds  and  bushes,  she 
pried  them  from  the  ground  with  a wooden  dig- 
ging stick.  I think  she  was  as  skillful  with  this 
as  were  my  mothers  with  their  hoes  of  iron. 

Digging  sticks  are  even  yet  used  by  old 
Hidatsa  women  for  digging  wild  turnips.  The 
best  kind  is  made  of  a stout  ash  sapling,  slightly 
bent  and  trimmed  at  the  root  end  to  a three- 
cornered  point.  To  harden  the  point,  it  is  oiled 


20 


WAHEENEE 


with  marrow  fat,  and  a bunch  of  dry  grass  is 
tied  around  it  and  fired.  The  charring  makes 
the  point  almost  as  hard  as  iron. 

Turtle,  I think,  was  the  last  woman  in  the 

tribe  to  use  an  old- 
fashioned,  bone-bladed 
hoe.  Two  other  old 
women  owned  such 
hoes,  but  no  longer  used 
them  in  the  fields.  Tur- 
tle’s hoe  was  made  of 
the  shoulder  bone  of  a 
buffalo  set  in  a light- 
wood  handle,  the  blade 
firmly  bound  in  place 
with  thongs.  The 
handle  was  rather  short, 
and  so  my  grandmother  stooped  as  she  worked 
among  her  corn  hills. 

She  used  to  keep  the  hoe  under  her  bed.  As 
I grew  a bit  older  my  playmates  and  I thought 
it  a curious  old  tool,  and  sometimes  we  tried  to 
take  it  out  and  look  at  it,  when  Turtle  would  cry, 
“ N ah,  nah!1  Go  away!  Let  that  hoe  alone;  you 
will  break  it!” 

We  children  were  a little  afraid  of  Turtle. 


1Nah 


THIRD  CHAPTER 

THE  BUFFALO-SKIN  CAP 

The  winter  I was  six  years  old  my  mother, 
Weahtee,  died. 

The  Black  Mouths,  a men’s  society,  had 
brought  gifts  to  One  Buffalo  and  asked  him  to  be 
winter  chief.  “We  know  you  own  sacred  objects, 
and  have  power  with  the  gods,”  they  said.  “We 
want  you  to  pray  for  us  and  choose  the  place  for 
our  camp.” 

One  Buffalo  chose  a place  in  the  woods  at 
the  mouth  of  Many-Frogs  Brook,  three  miles 
from  Like-a-Fishhook  village.  I remember  our 
journey  thither.  There  was  a round,  open  place 
in  the  trees  by  Many-Frogs  Brook,  where  young 
men  fasted  and  made  offerings  to  the  gods.  It 
was  a holy  place;  and  One  Buffalo  thought,  if 
we  pitched  our  winter  camp  near-by,  the  gods 
would  remember  us  and  give  us  a good  winter. 


21 


22 


WAHEENEE 


But  it  was  a hard  winter  from  its  start.  Cold 
weather  set  in  before  we  had  our  lodges  well 
under  cover;  and,  with  the  first  snow,  smallpox 
broke  out  in  camp.  Had  it  been  in  summer,  my 
tribe  could  have  broken  up  into  small  bands  and 
scattered;  and  the  smallpox  would  have  died 
out.  This  they  could  not  do  in  winter,  and  many 
died.  My  brother,  my  mother  Weahtee,  and  her 

sister  Stalk-of-Corn,  died, 
of  my  father’s  family. 

Although  my  old 
grandmother  was  good  to 
me,  I often  wept  for  my 
mother.  I was  lonesome 
in  our  winter  lodge,  and 
we  Indian  children  did  not 
have  many  playthings. 
Old  Turtle  made  me  a 
dolly  of  deer  skin  stuffed 
with  antelope  hair.  She 
sewed  on  two  white  bone 
beads  for  eyes.  I bit  off  one  of  these  bone  beads, 
to  see  if  it  was  good  to  eat,  I suppose.  For  some 
days  my  dolly  was  one-eyed,  until  my  grand- 
mother sewed  on  a beautiful  new  eye,  a blue 
glass  bead  she  had  gotten  of  a trader.  I thought 
this  much  better,  for  now  my  dolly  had  one 
blue  eye  and  one  white  one. 

I liked  to  play  with  my  father’s  big  hunting 
cap.  It  was  made  of  buffalo  skin,  from  the  part 
near  the  tail  where  the  hair  is  short.  He  wore 
it  with  the  fur  side  in.  Two  ears  of  buffalo  skin, 
stuffed  with  antelope  hair  to  make  them  stand 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


23 


upright,  were  sewed  one  on  each  side.  They 
were  long,  to  look  like  a jack  rabbit’s  ears;  but 
they  looked  more  like  the  thumbs  of  two  huge 
mittens.  My  father,  I think,  had  had  a dream 
from  the  jack-rabbit  spirits,  and  wore  the  cap 
as  a kind  of  prayer  to  them.  Jack  rabbits  are 
hardy  animals  and  fleet  of  foot.  They  live  on 
the  open  prairies  through  the  hardest  winters; 
and  a full  grown  rabbit  can  outrun  a wolf.  An 
Indian  hunter  had  need  to  be  nimble-footed  and 
hardy,  like  a jack  rabbit. 

Small  Ankle  thought  his  cap  a protection 
in  other  ways.  It  kept  his  head  warm.  Then, 
if  he  feared  enemies  were  about,  he  could  draw 
his  cap  down  to  hide  his  dark  hair,  creep  up  a 
hill  and  spy  over  the  top.  Being  of  dull  color, 
like  dead  grass,  the  cap  was  not  easily  seen  on 
the  sky  line.  A Sioux,  spying  it,  would  likely 
think  it  a coyote,  or  wolf,  with  erect,  pointed 
ears,  peering  over  the  hill,  as  these  animals 
often  did.  There  were  many  such  caps  worn 
by  our  hunters;  but  most  of  them  had  short 
pointed  ears,  like  a coyote’ 

My  father  sometimes  hung  his  cap,  wet  with 
snow,  on  the  drying  poles  over  the  fire  to  dry. 
I would  watch  it  with  longing  eyes;  and,  when 
I thought  it  well  warmed,  I would  hold  up  my 
small  hands  and  say,  “Father,  let  me  play 
with  the  cap.”  I liked  to  sit  in  it,  my  small 
ankles  turned  to  the  right,  like  an  Indian  wom- 
an’s; for  I liked  the  feel  of  the  warm  fur  against 
my  bare  knees.  At  other  times  I marched  about 
the  lodge,  the  big  cap  set  loosely  on  my  head, 


24 


WAHEENEE 


and  my  dolly  thrust  under  my  robe  on  my  back. 
In  doing  this  I always  made  my  grandmother 
laugh.  “Hey,  hey,”  she  would  cry,  “that  is  a 
warrior’s  cap.  A little  girl  can  not  be  a warrior.” 

The  winter,  if  hard,  was  followed  by  an 
early  spring.  Snow  was  thawing  and  flocks  of 
wild  geese  were  flying  north  a month  before 
their  wonted  time.  The  women  of  the  Goose 

Society  called  the 
people  for  their 
spring  dance, 
and  prayed  the 
gods  for  good 
weather  for  the 
corn  planting. 
One  Buffalo  sent 
a crier  through 
the  lodges,  warn- 
ing us  to  make 
ready  to  break 
camp.  On  the  day  set,  we  all  returned  to  Like- 
a-Fishhook  village,  glad  to  leave  our  stuffy  lit- 
tle winter  lodges  for  our  roomy  summer  homes. 

One  morning,  shortly  after  our  return,  my 
father  came  into  the  lodge  with  two  brave  men, 
Flying  Eagle  and  Stuck-by-Fish.  My  grand- 
father, Big  Cloud,  joined  them.  Big  Cloud 
lighted  a pipe,  offered  smoke  to  the  gods,  and 
passed  the  pipe  to  the  others.  It  was  a long 
pipe  with  black  stone  bowl.  The  four  men 
talked  together.  I heard  my  father  speak  of  a 
war  party  and  that  he  was  sure  his  gods  were 
strong. 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


25 


Toward  evening,  Red  Blossom  boiled  meat 
and  set  it  before  the  men.  When  they  had  eaten, 
Small  Ankle  rose  and  went  to  his  medicine  bag, 
that  hung  in  the  rear  of  the  lodge.  He  held 
out  his  hands  and  I saw  his  lips  move;  and  I 
knew  he  was  praying.  He  opened  the  medicine 
bag  and  took  out  a bundle  which  he  unrolled. 
It  was  a black  bear’s  skin,  painted  red.  He 
bore  the  skin  reverently  out  of  the  lodge,  and 
came  back  empty-handed.  Flying  Eagle  and 
Stuck-by-Fish  rose  and  left  the  lodge. 

My  father  sat  by  the  fire  awhile,  silent. 
Then  from  a post  of  his  bed  he  fetched  his  hunt- 
ing cap'.  “I  shall  need  this  cap,”  he  said  to  Red 
Blossom.  “See  if  it  must  be  sewed  or  mended 
in  any  place.” 

The  next  morning 
when  I went  out  of 
the  lodge,  I saw  that 
the  black-bear  skin 
was  bound  to  one  of 
the  posts  at  the  en- 
trance. This  was  a 
sign  that  my  father 
was  going  to  lead  out 
a war  party.  I was 
almost  afraid  to  pass 
the  bear  skin,  for  I 
knew  it  was  very  holy. 

For  days  after, 
young  men  came  to 
our  lodge  to  talk  with  my  father  and  Big  Cloud. 
My  mothers— for  so  I called  Red  Blossom  and 


26 


WAHEENEE 


Strikes-Many  Woman — had  the  pot  boiling  all 
the  time,  to  give  food  to  the  young  warriors. 

One  night  I was  in  bed  and  asleep,  when  I 
woke  with  a start,  hearing  low  voices.  Peep- 
ing out,  I saw  many  young  men  sitting  around 
the  fireplace.  The  fire  had  died  down,  but  the 
night  was  clear  and  a little  light  came  through 
the  smoke  hole.  Many  of  the  young  men  had 
bows  and  well-filled  quivers  on  their  backs.  A 
few  had  guns. 

Some  one  struck  flint  and  steel,  and  I saw  by 
the  glow  of  the  burning  tobacco  that  a pipe  was 
being  passed.  The  men  were  talking  low, 
almost  in  whispers.  Then  I heard  Big  Cloud’s 
voice,  low  and  solemn,  praying:  “Oh  gods, 
keep  watch  over  these  our  young  men.  Let 
none  of  them  be  harmed.  Help  them  strike 
many  enemies  and  steal  many  horses.” 

The  company  now  arose  and  filed  out  of  the 
lodge.  As  the  skin  door  fell  shut  after  them, 
I heard  the  whinny  of  Small  Ankle’s  war  pony 
without.  Next  morning,  I learned  that  Small 
Ankle  and  Big  Cloud  had  led  out  a war  party, 
all  mounted,  to  strike  the  northern  Sioux. 

The  ice  on  the  Missouri  river  broke,  and 
ran  out  with  much  crashing  and  roaring.  Some 
dead  buffaloes,  frozen  in  the  ice,  came  floating 
down  the  current.  Our  brave  young  men,  leap- 
ing upon  the  ice  cakes,  poled  the  carcasses  to 
shore.  We  were  glad  to  get  such  carcasses. 
Buffaloes  killed  in  the  spring  were  lean  and  poor 
in  flesh;  but  these,  frozen  in  the  ice,  were  fat 
and  tender. 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


27 


A good  many  frozen  carcasses  were  thus 
taken  at  the  spring  break-up.  In  the  fall  the 
rivers  froze  over,  often  with  rather  thin  ice. 
A herd  would  come  down  to  the  river’s  edge 
and  stand  lowing  and  grumbling,  until  some 
bold  bull  walked  out  upon  the  ice.  The  whole 
herd  followed,  often  breaking  through  with  their 
weight. 

The  weather  stayed  warm.  Bushes  in  the 
woods  had  begun  to  leaf,  and  old  Turtle  even 
raked  part  of  our 
field  and  planted 
sunflower  seed  around 
the  border.  “We  never 
saw  such  an  early 
spring,”  said  some  of 
the  old  men. 

Then,  one  night, 
a cold  wind  arose  with 
rain  turning  to  snow. 

I woke  up,  crying 
out  that  I was  chilled. 

My  grandmother,  who 
slept  with  me,  pulled 
over  us  an  extra  robe 
top  of  the  bed  frame. 

The  next  morning 
over  our  village.  The  wind  howled  overhead, 
driving  the  falling  snow  in  blinding  clouds. 
Red  Blossom  drew  her  robe  over  her  head  and 
went  to  the  entrance  to  run  over  to  our  next 
neighbor’s;  but  she  came  back.  “I  am  afraid 
to  go  out,”  she  said.  “The  air  is  so  full  of  snow 


she  had  laid  up  on  the 
a terrible  blizzard  broke 


28 


WAHEENEE 


that  I can  not  see  my  hand  when  I hold  it  before 
my  face.  I fear  I might  lose  my  way,  and 
wander  out  on  the  prairie  and  die.”  There 
were  stories  in  the  tribe  of  villagers  who  had 
perished  thus. 

Old  Turtle  and  Strikes-Many  Woman  made 
ready  our  noon  meal — no  easy  thing  to  do;  for 
the  cold  wind,  driving  down  the  smoke  hole, 
blew  ashes  into  our  faces  and  into  our  food. 
An  old  bull-boat  frame  was  turned  over  the 
smoke  hole.  Against  it,  on  the  windward  side, 
my  mothers  had  laid  a buffalo  skin  the  night 
before,  weighting  it  down  with  a stone.  This 
was  to  keep  the  wind  from  blowing  smoke  down 
the  smoke  hole ; but  the  wind  had  shifted  in  the 
night,  blowing  the  buffalo  skin  off  the  boat 
frame.  The  weight  of  the  stone  had  sunk  one 
end  of  the  skin  into  the  earth  roof,  where  it  had 
frozen  fast;  and  we  could  hear  the  loose  end 
flapping  and  beating  in  the  wind.  Little  snow 
came  down  the  smoke  hole.  The  wind  was  so 
strong  that  it  carried  the  snow  off  the  roof. 

Turtle  and  Strikes-Many  Woman  had  gone 
with  dogs  for  firewood  only  the  day  before;  so 
there  was  plenty  of  fuel  in  the  lodge.  We 
could  not  go  to  get  water  at  the  river;  but  Red 
Blossom  crept  into  the  entrance  way  and  filled 
a skin  basket  with  snow.  This  she  melted  in  a 
clay  pot,  for  water.  It  was  in  this  water  that 
we  boiled  our  meat  for  the  midday  meal.  In 
spite  of  the  calf  skin  that  my  grandmother  belted 
about  me,  I shivered  with  the  cold  until  my 
teeth  chattered.  Turtle  poured  some  of  the 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


29 


meat  broth,  steaming  hot,  into  a wooden  bowl, 
and  fetched  me  a buffalo-horn  spoon.  With 
this  spoon  I scooped  up  the  broth,  glad  to  swal- 
low something  hot  into  my  cold  little  stomach. 

After  our  meal,  my  two  mothers  and  Turtle 
sat  on  my  father’s  couch,  looking  grave.  “I 
hope  Small  Ankle  and  Big  Cloud  have  reached 
shelter  in  the  Missouri-river  timber,”  I heard 
Red  Blossom  say.  “If  they  are  on  the  prairie 
in  this  storm,  they  will  die.” 

“Big  Cloud’s  prayers  are  strong,”  answered 
Turtle,  “and  Small  Ankle  is  a good  plainsman. 
I am  sure  they  and  their  party  will  find  shelter.” 

“I  knew  a Mandan  who  was  caught  in  a bliz- 
zard,” said  Red  Blossom.  “He  walked  with 
the  wind  until  he  fell  into  a coulee,  that  was 
full  of  snow.  He  burrowed  under  the  drifts 
and  lay  on  his  back,  with  his  knees  doubled 
against  his  chin  and  his  robe  tight  about  him. 
He  lay  there  three  days,  until  the  storm  blew 
over.  He  had  a little  parched  corn  for  food; 
and,  for  drink,  he  ate  snow.  He  came  home 
safely;  but  his  mouth  was  sore  from  the  snow 
he  had  eaten.” 

Darkness  came  early,  with  the  wind  still 
screaming  overhead.  Turtle  tried  to  parch  some 
corn  in  a clay  pot,  but  blasts  from  the  smoke 
hole  blew  ashes  into  her  eyes.  She  took  out  a 
handful  of  the  half-parched  corn,  when  it  had 
cooled,  and  poured  it  into  my  two  hands.  This 
was  my  supper;  but  she  also  gave  me  a lump  of 
dried  chokecherries  to  eat.  They  were  sweet 
and  I was  fond  of  them. 


30 


WAHEENEE 


I awoke  the  next  morning  to  see  my  mothers 
cooking  our  breakfast,  parched-corn  meal  stir- 
red into  a thick  mush  with  beans  and  mar- 
row fat.  I sprang  out  of  bed  and  glanced  up  at 
the  smoke  hole.  The  sky,  I saw,  was  clear 
and  the  sun  was  shining. 

The  second  day  after,  about  midafternoon, 
Small  Ankle  came  home.  I heard  the  tinkle  of 
the  hollow  hoofs  that  hung  on  the  skin  door,  and 
in  a moment  my  father  came  around  the  fire 
screen  leading  his  war  pony,  a bay  with  a white 
nose.  He  put  his  pony  in  the  corral,  replaced 
the  bar,  and  came  over  to  his  couch  by  the  fire. 
My  mothers  said  nothing.  Red  Blossom  put 
water  and  dried  meat  in  a pot  and  set  it  on  the 
fire,  and  Turtle  fetched  an  armful  of  green  cot- 
tonwood bark  to  feed  the  pony. 

My  father  took  off  his  big  cap  and  hung  it 
on  the  drying  pole,  and  wrung  out  his  moccasins 
and  hung  them  beside  the  cap.  They  were  win- 
ter moccasins,  and  in  each  was  a kind  of  stock- 
ing, of  buffalo  skin  turned  fur  in,  and  cut  and 
sewed  to  fit  snugly  over  the  foot.  These  stock- 
ings Small  Ankle  drew  out  and  laid  by  the  fire, 
to  dry.  He  put  on  dry  moccasins,  threw  off  his 
robe,  and  took  upon  his  knees  the  bowl  of  broth 
and  meat  that  Red  Blossom  silently  handed  him. 

In  the  evening,  'some  of  his  cronies  came  in 
to  smoke  and  talk.  Small  Ankle  told  them  of 
his  war  party. 

“We  had  a hard  time,”  he  said.  “Perhaps 
the  gods,  for  some  cause,  were  angry  with  us. 
We  had  gone  five  days;  evening  came  and  it 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


31 


began  to  rain.  We  were  on  the  prairie,  and  our 
young  men  sat  all  night  with  their  saddles  and 
saddle  skins  over  their  Heads  to  keep  off  the  rain. 

“In  the  morning,  the  rain  turned  to  snow. 
A heavy  wind  blew  the  snow  in  our  faces,  nearly 
blinding  us. 

“ ‘We  must  make  our  way  to  the  Missouri 
timber  and  find  shel- 
ter,’ Big  Cloud  said. 

“Flying  Eagle 
feared  we  could  not 
find  our  way.  ‘The 
air  is  so  full  of  snow 
that  we  can  not  see  the 
hills,’  he  said. 

“ ‘The  wind  will 
guide  us,’  said  Stuck- 
by-Fish.  ‘We  know 
the  Missouri  river  is 
in  the  south.  The 
wind  is  from  the  west.  If  we  travel  with  the 
wind  on  our  right,  we  shall  be  headed  south. 
We  should  reach  the  river  before  night.’ 

“I  thought  this  a good  plan,  and  I cried,  ‘My 
young  men,  saddle  your  horses.’  We  had  flat 
saddles,  such  as  hunters  use.  We  had  a few 
bundles  of  dried  meat  left.  These  we  bound 
firmly  to  our  saddles,  for  we  knew  we  could  kill 
no  game  while  the  storm  lasted. 

“Many  of  my  young  men  had  head  cloths 
which  they  bound  over  their  hair  and  under  their 
chins;  but  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  it  blew 
the  wet  snow  through  the  cloths,  freezing  them 


32 


WAHEENEE 


to  the  men’s  faces.  I had  on  my  fur  cap,  which 
kept  my  face  warm.  Also,  I think  the  jack- 
rabbit  spirits  helped  me. 

“We  pushed  on;  but  the  snow  got  deeper  and 
deeper  until  we  could  hardly  force  our  ponies 
through  it.  We  grew  so  chilled  that  Big  Cloud 
ordered  us  to  dismount  and  go  afoot.  ‘You  go 
first,’  he  said  to  Flying  Eagle.  ‘You  are  a tall 
man  and  have  long  legs.  You  break  the  way 
through  the  snow.  We  will  follow  single-file.’ 

“Flying  Eagle  did  so,  leading  his  pony.  With 
Flying  Eagle  had  come  his  brother,  Short  Buffalo, 
a lad  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  years.  He  was  not 
yet  grown,  and  his  legs  were  so  short  that  he 
could  not  make  his  way  through  the  deep  snow. 
We  let  him  ride. 

“But  in  a little  while  Short  Buffalo  cried  out, 
‘My  brother,  I freeze;  I die!’ 

“Flying  Eagle  called  back,  ‘Do  not  give  up, 
little  brother.  Be  strong!’  And  he  came  back 
and  bound  Short  Buffalo’s  robe  snugly  about  his 
neck,  and  took  the  reins  of  his  pony,  so  that 
Short  Buffalo  could  draw  his  hands  under  his 
robe  to  warm  them.  Short  Buffalo’s  robe  had 
frozen  stiff  in  the  cold  wind. 

“We  reached  the  Missouri  before  nightfall 
and  went  down  into  the  thick  timber.  It  was 
good  to  be  out  of  the  freezing  wind,  sheltered  by 
the  trees. 

“Flying  Eagle  led  us  to  a point  of  land  over 
which  had  swept  a fire,  killing  the  trees.  Many 
dead  cottonwoods  stood  there,  with  shaggy  bark. 
We  peeled  off  the  thick  outer  bark,  shredding 


THE  B UFFALO-SKIN  CAP 


33 


the  dry  inner  bark  for  tinder.  I had  flint  and 
steel.  We  rolled  over  a fallen  trunk  and  started 
a fire  on  the  dry  ground  beneath.  We  broke  off 
dead  branches  for  fuel. 

“Flying  Eagle  helped  me  get  wood  and  start 
the  fire.  He  is  a strong  man  and  bore  the  cold 
better  than  the  others.  Many  of  the  men  were 
too  benumbed  to  help  any.  My  mittens  and 
my  cap  had  kept  me  warm. 

“The  men’s  leggings,  wetted  by  rain  and 
snow,  were  frozen  stiff.  We  soon  had  a hot  fire. 
When  their  leggings  had  thawed  soft,  the  men 
took  off  these  and  their  moccasins,  and  wrung 
them  out;  and  when  they  had  half  dried  them  by 
the  fire,  put  them  on  again.  They  also  put 
shredded  cottonwood  bark  in  their  moccasins, 
packing  it  about  their  feet  and  ankles  to  keep 
them  warm  and  dry. 

“We  toasted  dried  meat  over  the  fire,  and 
ate;  for  we  were  hungry,  and  weak  from  the 
cold.  We  fed  our  ponies  green  cottonwood 
branches  that  we  cut  with  our  knives. 

“The  storm  died  down  before  morning;  and 
early  the  next  day  we  started  down  the  river 
to  our  village.  We  were  slow  coming,  for  the 
snow  thawed,  growing  soft  and  slushy  under 
our  ponies’  feet.  Our  ponies,  too,  were  weak 
from  the  cold.” 

Many  of  the  young  men  of  my  father’s 
party  had  their  faces  frozen  on  the  right  side. 
Short  Buffalo  had  part  of  his  right  hand  fro- 
zen, and  his  right  foot.  He  was  sick  for  a long 
time.  Another  war  party  that  had  been  led 

3 


34 


WAHEENEE 


out  by  Wooden  House  had  also  been  caught 
in  the  storm  and  had  fared  even  worse.  They 
were  afoot,  and,  not  being  able  to  reach  the 
river  timber,  they  lay  down  in  a coulee  and  let 
the  snow  drift  over  them.  Two  were  frozen 
to  death. 

The  leaders  of  a war  party  were  held  to 
blame  for  any  harm  that  came  to  their  men. 
The  villagers,  however,  did  not  blame  my  father 
much.  Some  of  the  older  men  said,  “Small 
Ankle  and  Big  Cloud  were  foolish.  The  wild 
geese  had  come  north,  but  this  fact  alone  was 
not  proof  that  winter  had  gene.  We  know  that 
bad  storms  often  blow  up  at  this  season  of  the 
year.” 

Of  course,  being  but  six  years  old,  I could 
hardly  remember  all  these  things.  But  my 
father  talked  of  his  war  party  many  times  after- 
wards, at  his  evening  fire,  as  he  smoked  with 
his  cronies;  and  so  I came  to  know  the  story. 


/ 


FOURTH  CHAPTER 
STORY  TELLING 

My  good  old  grandmother  could  be  stern 
when  I was  naughty;  nevertheless,  I loved  her 
dearly,  and  I know  she  was  fond  of  me.  After 
the  death  of  my  mother,  it  fell  to  Turtle  to 
care  for  me  much  of  the  time.  There  were 
other  children  in  the  household,  and,  with  so 
many  mouths  to  feed,  my  two  other  mothers, 
as  I called  them,  had  plenty  of  work  to  do. 

Indians  are  great  story  tellers;  especially 
are  they  fond  of  telling  tales  around  the  lodge 
fire  in  the  long  evenings  of  autumn  and  winter. 
My  father  and  his  cronies  used  sometimes  to 
sit  up  all  night,  drumming  and  singing  and  tell- 
ing stories.  Young  men  often  came  with  gift 
of  robe  or  knife,  to  ask  him  to  tell  them  tales 
of  our  tribe. 

I was  too  young  yet  to  understand  many  of 
these  tales.  My  father  was  hours  telling  some 


35 


36 


WAHEENEE 


of  them,  and  they  had  many  strange  words. 
But  my  grandmother  used  to  tell  me  stories  as 
she  sat  or  worked  by  the  lodge  fire. 

One  evening  in  the  corn  planting  moon, 
she  was  making  ready  her  seed  for  the  mor- 
row’s planting.  She  had 
a string  of  braided  ears 
lying  beside  her.  Of 
these  ears  she  chose  the 
best,  broke  off  the  tip 
and  butt  of  each,  and 
shelled  the  perfect  grain 
of  the  mid-cob  into  a 
wooden  bowl.  Baby-like, 
I ran  my  fingers  through 
the  shiny  grain,  spilling  a 
few  kernels  on  the  floor. 

“Do  not  do  that,”  cried  my  grandmother. 
“Corn  is  sacred;  if  you  waste  it,  the  gods  will 
be  angry.” 

I still  drew  my  fingers  through  the  smooth 
grain,  and  my  grandmother  continued:  “Once 
a Ree  woman  went  out  to  gather  her  corn. 
She  tied  her  robe  about  her  with  a big  fold  in 
the  front,  like  a pocket.  Into  this  she  dropped 
the  ears  that  she  plucked,  and  bore  them  off 
to  the  husking  pile.  All  over  the  field  she  went, 
row  by  row,  leaving  not  an  ear. 

“She  was  starting  off  with  her  last  load  when 
she  heard  a weak  voice,  like  a babe’s,  calling, 
‘Please,  please  do  not  go.  Do  not  leave  me.’ 

“The  woman  stopped,  astonished.  She  put 
down  her  load.  ‘Can  there  be  a babe  hidden 


STORY  TELLING 


37 


in  the  corn?’  she  thought.  She  then  carefully 
searched  the  field,  hill  by  hill,  but  found  nothing. 

“She  was  taking  up  her  load,  when  again 
she  heard  the  voice:  .‘Oh,  please  do  not  go. 
Do  not  leave  me!’  Again  she  searched,  but 
found  nothing. 

“She  was  lifting  her  load  when  the  voice 
came  the  third  time:  ‘Please,  please,  do  not 
go!  Please,  do  not  leave  me!’ 

“This  time  the  woman  searched  every  corn 
hill,  lifting  every  leaf.  And  lo,  in  one  corner  of 
the  field,  hidden  under  a leaf,  she  found  a tiny 
nubbin  of  yellow  corn.  It  was  the  nubbin  that 
had  been  calling  to  her.  For  so  the  gods  would 
teach  us  not  to  be  wasteful  of  their  gifts.” 

Another  evening  I was  trying  to  parch  an 
ear  of  corn  over  the  coals  of  our  lodge  fire.  I 
had  stuck  the  ear  on  the  end  of  a squash  spit, 
as  I had  seen  my  mothers  do;  but  my  baby 
fingers  were  not  strong  enough  to  fix  the  ear 
firmly,  and  it  fell  off  into  the  coals  and  began 
to  burn.  My  mouth  puckered,  and  I was 
ready  to  cry. 

My  grandmother  laughed.  “You  should  put 
only  half  the  ear  on  the  spit,”  she  said.  “That 
is  the  way  the  Mandans  did  when  they  first 
gave  us  corn.” 

I dropped  the  spit  and,  forgetting  the  burn- 
ing ear,  asked  eagerly,  “How  did  the  Mandans 
give  us  corn,  grandmother.  Tell  me  the  story.” 

Turtle  picked  up  the  spit  and  raked  the 
burning  ear  from  the  ashes.  “I  have  told  you 


38 


WAHEENEE 


that  the  gods  gave  us  corn  to  eat,  not  to  waste,” 
she  said.  “Some  of  the  kernels  on  this  cob  are 
well  parched.”  And  she  shelled  off  a handful 
and  put  one  of  the  hot  kernels  in  her  mouth. 

“I  will  tell  you  the  story,”  she  continued. 
“I  had  it  from  my  mother  when  I was  a little 
girl  like  you. 

“In  the  beginning,  our  Hidatsa  people  lived 
under  the  waters  of  Devils  Lake.  They  had 
earth  lodges  and  lived  much  as  we  live  now. 
One  day  some  hunters  found  the  root  of  a 
grapevine  growing  down  from  the  lake  over- 
head. They  climbed  the  vine  and  found  them- 
selves on  this  earth.  Others  climbed  the  vine 
until  half  the  tribe  had  escaped;  but,  when  a 
fat  woman  tried  to  climb  it,  the  vine  broke, 
leaving  the  rest  of  the  tribe  under  the  lake. 

“Those  who  had  safely  climbed  the  vine, 
built  villages  of  earth  lodges.  They  lived  by 
hunting;  and  some  very  old  men  say  that  they 
also  planted  small  fields  in  ground  beans  and 
wild  potatoes.  As  yet  the  Hidatsas  knew  noth- 
ing of  corn  or  squashes. 

“One  day,  a war  party  that  had  wandered 
west  to  the  Missouri  river  saw  on  the  other 
side  a village  of  earth  lodges  like  their  own. 
It  was  a village  of  the  Mandans.  Neither  they 
nor  the  Hidatsas  would  cross  over,  each  party 
fearing  the  other  might  be  enemies. 

“It  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  and  the  Mis- 
souri was  running  low,  so  that  an  arrow  could 
be  shot  from  shore  to  shore.  The  Mandans 
parched  some  ears  of  ripe  corn  with  the  grain 


STORY  TELLING 


39 


on  the  cob.  These  ears  they  broke  in  pieces, 
stuck  the  pieces  on  the  points  of  arrows  and 
shot  them  across  the  river.  ^§§e:>' 

‘Eat!’  they  called.  The  word 
for  ‘eat’  is  the  same  in  both 
the  Hidatsa  and  the  Mandan 
languages. 

“The  Hidatsas  ate  of  the 
parched  corn.  They  returned 
to  their  village  and  said,  ‘We 
have  found  a people  on  a great  eg 
river,  to  the  west.  They  have  L 
a strange  kind  of  grain.  We  $! 
ate  of  it  and  found  it  good.’ 

“After  this,  a party  of 
Hidatsas  went  to  visit  the  * 

Mandans.  The  Mandan  chief 
took  an  ear  of  corn,  broke  it  in 
two,  and  gave  half  to  the  Hidatsas 
for  seed.  This  half  ear  the  Hidatsas 
took  home,  and  soon  every  family  iw 
in  the  village  was  planting  corn.” 

My  father  had  been  listening,  as 
he  sat  smoking  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fire.  “I  know  that  story,”  he 
said.  “The  name  of  the  Mandan 
chief  was  Good-Fur  Robe.” 


My  grandmother  then  put  me  to  bed.  I 
was  so  sleepy  that  I did  not  notice  she  had 
eaten  up  all  the  corn  I had  parched. 

Winter  came  again,  and  spring.  As  soon  as 
the  soil  could  be  worked,  my  mothers  and  old 


40 


WAHEENEE 


Turtle  began  cleaning  up  our  field,  and  break- 
ing new  ground  to  add  to  it.  Our  first  year’s 
field  had  been  small;  but  my  mothers  added  to  it 
each  season,  until  the  field  was  as  large  as  our 
family  needed. 

I was  too  little  to  note  very  much  of  what 
was  done.  I remember  that  my  father  set  up 
boundary  marks — little  piles  of  earth  or  stones, 
I think  they  were — to  mark  the  corners  of  the 
field  we  claimed.  My  mothers  and  Turtle 
began  at  one  end  of  the  field  and  worked  for- 
ward. My  mothers  had  their  heavy  iron  hoes; 
and  Turtle,  her  old-fashioned  digging  stick. 

On  the  new  ground,  my  mothers  first  cut 
the  long  grass  with  their  hoes,  bearing  it  off 
the  field  to  be  burned.  They  next  dug  and  loos- 
ened the  soil  in  places  for  the  corn  hills,  which 
they  laid  off  in  rows.  These  hills  they  planted. 
Then  all  summer  in  this  and  other  parts  of  the 
field  they  worked  with  their  hoes,  breaking  and 
loosening  the  soil  between  the  corn  hills  and 
cutting  weeds. 

Small  trees  and  bushes,  I know,  were  cut 
off  with  axes;  but  I remember  little  of  this 
labor,  most  of  it  having  been  done  the  year 
before,  when  I was  yet  quite  small.  My  father 
once  told  me  that  in  very  old  times,  when  the 
women  cleared  a field,  they  first  dug  the  corn 
hills  with  digging  sticks,  and  afterwards  worked 
between  them  with  their  bone  hoes. 

I remember  this  season’s  work  the  better 
for  a dispute  that  my  mothers  had  with  two 
neighbors,  Lone  Woman  and  Goes-Back-to-Next- 


STORY  TELLING 


41 


Timber.  These  two  women  were  clearing  lands 
that  bordered  our  own.  My  father,  I have  said, 
to  set  up  claim  to  our  land,  had  placed  boundary 
marks,  one  of  them  in  the  corner  that  touched 
the  fields  of  Lone  Woman  and  Goes-Back-to- 
Next-Timber.  While  my  mothers  were  busy 
clearing  and  digging  up  the  other  end  of  their 
field,  their  two  neighbors  invaded  this  marked- 
off  corner.  Lone  Woman  had  even  dug  up  a 
small  part  before  she  was  discovered. 

My  mothers  showed  Lone  Woman  the  mark 
my  father  had  placed.  “This  land  belongs  to 
us,”  they  said;  “but  we  will  pay  you  and  Goes- 
Back-to-Next-Timber  for  any  rights  you  may 
think  are  yours.  We  do  not  want  our  neighbors 
to  bear  us  any  hard  feelings.” 

We  Indians  thought  our  fields  sacred,  and  we 
did  not  like  to  quarrel  about  them.  A family’s 
right  to  a field  once  having  been  set  up,  no  one 
thought  of  disputing  it.  If  any  one  tried  to  seize 
land  belonging  to  another,  we  thought  some  evil 
would  come  upon  him;  as  that  one  of  his  family 
would  die  or  have  some  bad  sickness. 

There  is  a story  of  a hunter  who  had  before 
been  a black  bear,  and  had  been  given  great  magic 
power.  He  dared  try  to  catch  eagles  from 
another  man’s  pit,  and  had  his  mind  taken  from 
him  for  doing  so.  Thus  the  gods  punished  him 
for  entering  ground  that  was  not  his  own. 

Lone  Woman  and  Goes-Back-to-Next-Timber 
having  withdrawn,  my  grandmother  Turtle  under- 
took to  clear  and  break  the  ground  that  had  been 
in  dispute.  She  was  a little  woman  but  active, 


42 


WAHEENEE 


and  she  loved  to  work  out-of-doors.  Often,  when 
my  mothers  were  busy  in  the  earth  lodge,  Turtle 
would  go  out  to  work  in  the  field,  and  she  would 
take  me  along  for  company.  I was  too  little  to 
help  her  any,  but  I liked  to  watch  her  work. 

With  her  digging  stick  Turtle  dug  up  a little 
round  place  in  the  center  of  the  corner,  and 

around  this  she  circled 
from  day  to  day,  enlarg- 
ing the  dug-up  space.  She 
had  folded  her  robe  over 
her  middle,  like  a pad. 
Resting  the  handle  of  her 
digging  stick  against  her 
folded  robe,  she  would 
drive  the  point  into  the 
soft  earth  to  a depth 
equal  to  the  length  of  my 
hand  and  pry  up  the  soil. 

She  broke  clods  by 
striking  them  smartly 
with  her  digging  stick.  Roots  of  coarse  grass, 
weeds,  small  brush  and  the  like,  she  took  in  her 
hand  and  shook  or  struck  them  against  the  ground, 
to  knock  off  the  loose  earth  clinging  to  them.  She 
then  cast  them  into  little  piles  to  dry.  In  a few 
days  she  gathered  these  piles  into  a heap  about 
four  feet  high  and  burned  them. 

My  grandmother  worked  in  this  way  all  sum- 
mer, but  not  always  in  the  corner  that  had  been 
in  dispute.  Some  days,  I remember,  she  dug 
along  the  edges  of  the  field,  to  add  to  it  and  make 
the  edges  even.  Of  course,  not  all  the  labor  of 


STORY  TELLING 


43 


enlarging  the  field  was  done  by  Turtle;  but  she 
liked  to  have  me  with  her  when  she  worked,  and 
I remember  best  what  I saw  her  do. 

It  was  my  grandmother’s  habit  to  rise  early 
in  the  summer  months.  She  often  arrived  at  the 
field  before  sunrise;  about  ten  o’clock  she  returned 
to  the  lodge  to  eat  and  rest. 

One  morning,  having  come  to  the  field  quite 
early,  I grew  tired  of  my  play  before  my  grand- 
mother had  ended  her  work.  “I  want  to  go 
home,”  I begged,  and  I began  to  cry.  Just  then 
a strange  bird  flew  into  the  field.  It  had  a long 
curved  beak,  and  made  a queer  cry,  cur-lew,  cur-lew. 

I stopped  weeping.  My  grandmother  laughed. 

“That  is  a curlew,”  she  said.  “Once  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Knife  river,  a woman  went  out  with 
her  digging  stick  to  dig  wild  turnips.  The  wom- 
an had  a babe.  Growing  tired  of  carrying  her 
babe  on  her  back,  she  laid  it  on  the  ground. 

“The  babe  began  to  cry.  The  mother  was 
busy  digging  turnips,  and  did  not  go  to  her  babe 
as  she  should  have  done.  By  and  by  she  looked 
up.  Her  babe  was  flying  away  as  a bird! 

“The  bird  was  a curlew,  that  cries  like  a babe. 
Now,  if  you  cry,  perhaps  you,  too,  will  turn  into 
a curlew.” 


FIFTH  CHAPTER 
LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 

The  small  lodges  we  built  for  winter  did  not 
stand  long  after  we  left  them  in  the  spring. 
Built  on  low  ground  by  the  Missouri,  they  were 
often  swept  away  in  the  June  rise;  for  in  that 
month  the  river  is  flooded  by  snows  melting  in 
the  Rocky  Mountains. 

The  loss  of  our  winter  lodges  never  troubled 
us,  however;  for  we  thought  of  them  as  but  huts. 
Then,  too,  we  seldom  wintered  twice  in  the  same 
place.  We  burned  much  firewood  in  our  winter 
lodges,  and  before  spring  came  the  women  had 
to  go  far  to  find  it.  The  next  season  we  made 
camp  in  a new  place,  where  was  plenty  of  dead- 
and-down  wood  for  fuel. 

We  looked  upon  our  summer  lodges,  to 
which  we  came  every  spring,  as  our  real  homes. 
There  were  about  seventy  of  these,  earth  lodges 


44 


LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 


45 


well-built  and  roomy,  in  Like-a-Fishhook  vil- 
lage. Most  of  them  were  built  the  second  sum- 
mer of  our  stay  there. 

My  mothers’  earth  lodge — for  the  lodge 
belonged  to  the  women  of  a household — was  a 
large  one,  with  floor  measuring  more  than  forty 
feet  across.  In  the  center  was  the  fireplace. 
A screen  of  puncheons,  set  upright  in  a trench, 
stood  between  the  fireplace  and  the  door.  This 
screen  shut  out  draughts  and  kept  out  the  dogs. 

The  screen  ran  quite  to  the  sloping  wall, 
on  the  right;  but,  on  the  left,  there  was  space  for 
a passage  from  the  door  to  the  fire.  Right  and 
left  in  an  Indian  lodge  are  reckoned  as  one 
stands  at  the  fireplace,  looking  toward  the  door. 
We  thought  an  earth  lodge  was  alive  and  had 
a spirit  like  a human  body,  and  that  its  front 
was  like  a face,  with 
the  door  for  mouth. 

Before  the  fire- 
place and  against  the 
puncheon  screen  was 
my  father’s  bed. 

Forked  posts,  eighteen 
inches  high,  stood  in 
the  earth  floor.  On 
poles  laid  in  the  forks 
rested  cotton-wood 
planks  over  which 
were  thrown  buffalo  robes.  A skin  pillow,  stuffed 
with  antelope  hair,  lay  at  one  end  of  the  bed. 

The  beds  of  the  rest  of  the  family  stood  in 
the  back  of  the  lodge,  against  the  wall.  They 


46 


WAHEENEE 


were  less  simply  made  than  my  father’s,  being 
each  covered  with  an  old  tent  skin  drawn  over 
a frame  of  posts  and  poles.  The  bedding  was 
of  buffalo  skins.  As  these  could  not  be  washed, 

my  mothers  used  to 
take  tnem  out  and 
hang  them  on  the  poles 
of  the  corn  stage  on 
sunny  days,  to  air. 

Most  of  the  earth 
lodges — at  least  most 
of  the  larger  ones — 
had  each  a bed  like 
my  father’s  before  the 
fireplace;  for  this  was 
the  warmest  place  in 
the  lodge.  Usually 
the  eldest  in  the  fam- 
ily, as  the  father  or  grandfather,  slept  in  this  bed. 

My  father’s  bed,  not  being  enclosed,  made 
a good  lounging  place  by  day,  and  here  he  sat 
to  smoke  or  chat  with  his  friends.  My  moth- 
ers, too,  used  to  sit  here  to  peel  wild  turnips  or 
make  ready  the  daily  meals. 

Two  or  three  sticks  burned  in  the  fireplace, 
not  piled  one  upon  the  other  as  done  by  white 
men,  but  laid  with  ends  meeting.  As  the  ends 
burned  away,  the  sticks  were  pushed  in,  keep- 
ing alive  a small  but  hot  fire.  At  night,  the 
last  thing  my  father  did  was  to  cover  one  of 
these  burning  sticks  with  ashes,  that  it  might 
keep  fire  until  morning. 


LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 


47 


Unless  he  had  spent  the  night  with  some  of 
his  cronies,  my  father  was  the  first  to  rise  in 
the  morning.  He  would  go  to  the  fireplace, 
draw  out  a buried  coal,  lay  some  dry  sticks 
upon  it,  and  blow  with  his  breath  until  the 
fire  caught.  Sometimes  he  fanned  the  coal  with 
a goose  wing. 

Soon  a little  column  of  smoke  would  rise 
toward  the  smoke  hole,  and  my  father  would 
call,  “Up,  little  daughter;  up,  sons!  Get  up, 
wives!  The  sun  is  up.  To  the  river  for  your 
bath!  Hasten!”  And  he  would  go  up  on  the 
roof  to  look  if  enemies  were  about  and  if  his 
horses  were  safe.  My  mothers  were  already 
up  when  I crept  from  my  bed  still  sleepy,  but 
glad  that  morning  had  come. 

But  if  the  weather  was  cold,  we  did  not  go 
to  the  river  to  bathe.  An  earthen  pot  full  of 
water  stood  by  one  of  the 
posts  near  the  fire.  It  rested 
in  a ring  of  bark,  to  keep  it 
from  falling.  My  mothers 
dipped  each  a big  horn  spoon 
full  of  water,  filled  her  mouth, 
and,  blowing  the  water  over 
her  palms,  gave  her  face  a 
good  rubbing.  Red  Blossom 
washed  my  face  in  the 
same  way.  I did  not  like  it  very  much,  and  I 
would  shut  my  eyes  and  pucker  my  face  when 
I felt  the  cold  water.  Red  Blossom  would  say, 
“Why  do  you  pucker  up  your  face?  You  make 
it  look  like  a piece  of  old,  dried,  buffalo  skin.” 


48 


WAHEENEE 


Her  face  washed.  Red  Blossom  sat  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed  and  finished  her  toilet.  She 
had  a little  fawn-skin  bag,  worked  with  red 
porcupine  quills.  From  this  bag  she  took  her 

hairbrush,  a porcupine 
tail  mounted  on  a stick, 
with  the  sharp  points  of 
the  quills  cut  off.  She 
brushed  her  hair  smooth, 
parting  it  in  two  braids 
that  fell  over  each 
.shoulder  nearly  hiding 
her  ears.  Red  Blossom 
was  no  longer  young,  but  her  black  tresses  had 
not  a grey  hair  in  them. 

She  now  opened  her  paint  bag,  put  a little 
buffalo  grease  on  her  two  fingers,  pressed  the 
tips  lightly  in  the  dry  paint,  and  rubbed  them 
over  her  cheeks  and  face.  She  also  rubbed  a 
little  red  into  the  part  of  her  hair. 

Meanwhile,  the  pot  had  been  put  on  the  fire. 
We  Indians  did  not  eat  many  things  at  a meal  as 
white  men  do.  Usually,  breakfast  was  of  one 
thing,  often  buffalo  meat  dried,  and  boiled  to  soft- 
en it.  When  a buffalo  was  killed,  the  meat  was 
cut  into  thin  slices,  and  some  parts,  into  strips. 
These  were  dried  in  the  open  air  over  the  earth 
lodge  fire  or  in  the  smoke  of  a small  fire  out-of- 
doors.  For  breakfast,  a round  earthen  pot  was 
filled  with  water,  dried  meat  put  in,  and  the 
water  brought  to  a boil.  Red  Blossom  used  to 
lift  out  the  hot  meat  slices  on  the  point  of  a 
stick,  laying  them  on  a bit  of  clean  rawhide. 


LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 


49 


A rough  bench  stood  back  of  the  fireplace, 
a cottonwood  plank,  with  ends  resting  on  two 
blocks  chopped  from  a tree  trunk.  My  grand- 
mother Turtle  sat  on  this  bench  to  eat  her  meals. 
My  two  mothers  sat  beside  her,  or  on  the  floor 
near  the  meat  they  were  serving.  My  father  ate 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  couch.  A wooden 
bowl,  heaped  with  steaming  meat,  was  set 
before  each.  Our  fingers  did  for  forks. 

Boiling  the  meat  in  water  made  a thin  broth 
which  we  used  for  a hot  drink.  It  was  very 
good,  tasting  much  like  white  man’s  beef  tea. 
We  had  no  cups;  but  we  had  big  spoons  made 
of  buffalo  horn,  and  ladles,  of  mountain-sheep 
horn.  Either  of  these  did  very  well  for  drink- 
ing cups.  Sometimes, >we  used  mussel  shells. 

A common  breakfast  dish  was  mapee 1 naka- 
pah ,2  or  pounded-meal  mush.  From  her  cache 
pit  Red  Blossom  took  a string  of  dried  squash 
slices.  She  cut  off  a length  and  tied  the  ends 
together,  making  a ring  four  or  five  inches  in 
width.  This  ring  and  a double  handful  of 
beans  she  dropped  in  a pot  of  water,  and  set 
on  the  fire.  When  boiled,  she  lifted  the  ring 
out  with  a stick,  with  her  horn  ladle  mashed  the 
softened  squash  slices  in  a wooden  bowl  and  put 
them  back  in  the  pot. 

Meanwhile  Strikes-Many  Woman  or  old  Tur- 
tle had  parched  some  corn  in  a clay  pot,  and 
toasted  some  buffalo  fats  on  a stick,  over  the 
coals.  Red  Blossom  now  pounded  the  parched 
corn  and  toasted  fats  together  in  the  corn  mortar, 
and  stirred  the  pounded  mass  into  the  pot  with 

1ma  pee'  2na  ka  pah' 


4 


50 


WAIIEENEE 


the  squash  and  beans.  The  mess  was  soon 
done.  Red  Blossom  dipped  it  into  our  bowls 
with  a horn  spoon. 

We  ate  such  messes  with  horn  spoons  or 


with  mussel 
few  metal 
was  a shelf, 


shells;  for  we  Hidatsas  had 
spoons  in  those  days.  There 
or  bench,  at  one  side  of  the 
room,  under  the  sloping 
roof,  where  were  stored 
wooden  bowls,  uneaten 
foods,  horn  spoons,  and 
the  mussel  shells  that 
we  used  for  teaspoons. 
When  I was  a little  girl,  nearly  every  family  owned 
such  shells,  worn  smooth  and  shiny  from  use. 

After  breakfast,  unless  it  was  in  the  corn  sea- 
son, when  they  went  to  the  field,  my  mothers 
tidied  up  the  lodge.  They  had  short  brooms 
of  buckbrush.  With  these  they  swept  the  floor, 
stooping  over  and  drawing  the  broom  with  a 
sidewise  motion.  As  my  father  stabled  his 
hunting  ponies  in  the  lodge  at  night,  there  was 
a good  deal  of  litter  to  be  taken  out.  Red 
Blossom  used  to  scrape  her  sweepings  into  a 
skin  basket,  which  she  bore  to  the  river  bank 
and  emptied. 

Other  tasks  were  then  taken  up;  and  there 
were  plenty  of  them.  Moccasins  had  to  be 
made  or  old  ones  mended.  Shirts  and  other 
garments  had  to  be  made.  Often  there  were 
skins  to  be  dressed  or  scraped.  Leggings  and 
shirts  were  embroidered  usually  in  winter,  when 
the  women  had  no  corn  to  hoe. 


LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 


51 


There  was  a good  deal  of  visiting  in  our  lodge; 
for  my  father  was  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  village, 
and  always  kept  open  house.  “If  a man  would 
be  chief,”  we  said,  “he  should  be  ready  to  feed 
the  poor  and  strangers.”  A pot  with  buffalo 
meat  or  corn  and  beans  cooking  was  always 
on  the  fire  in  my  father’s  lodge.  His  friends 
and  the  other  chief  men  of  the  village  often 
came  in  to  talk  over  affairs.  A visitor  came  in 
without  knocking,  but  did  not  sit  down  until 
he  was  asked. 

Friends  of  my  mothers  also  came  in  to  sit  and 
chat;  and  they  often  joined  my  mothers  at 
whatever  task  they  might  be  doing.  Red  Blos- 
som would  set  a bowl  of  food  before  each. 
What  she  could  not  eat  the  guest  took  home 
with  her.  It  was  impolite  to  leave  any  uneaten 
food,  as  that  would  mean,  “I  do  not  like  your 
cooking;  it  is  unfit  to  eat.” 

My  mothers  were  neat  housekeepers  and 
kept  the  ground  about  the  lodge  entrance  swept 
as  clean  as  the  lodge  floor;  but  many  families 
were  careless,  and  cast  ashes,  floor  sweepings, 
scraps  of  broken  bones  and  other  litter  on  the 
ground  about  their  lodges.  In  time  this  rubbish 
made  little  piles  and  became  a nuisance,  so  that 
people  could  hardly  walk  in  the  paths  between 
the  lodges. 

The  Black  Mouths  then  went  through  the 
village  and  ordered  the  women  to  clean  up. 
The  Black  Mouths  were  a society  of  men  of 
about  forty  years  of  age.  They  acted  as  police 
and  punished  any  one  who  broke  the  camp  laws. 


52 


WAHEENEE 


These  clean-ups  were  made  rather  often;  in 
summer,  perhaps  twice  a month.  They  were 
always  ordered  by  the  Black  Mouths. 

I remember  one  morning,  just  after  break- 
fast, I heard  singing,  as  of  a dozen  or  more  men 
coming  toward  our  lodge.  I 
started  to  run  out  to  see  what 
it  was,  but  my  mothers  cried, 
“Do  not  go.  It  is  the  Black 
Mouths.”  My  mothers,  I 
thought,  looked  rather  scared. 
We  were  still  speaking,  when  I 
heard  the  tramp  of  feet.  The 
door  lifted,  and  the  Black 
Mouths  came  in. 

They  looked  very  terrible, 
all  painted  with  the  lower  half 
of  the  face  black.  Many,  but 
not  all,  had  the  upper  half  of 
the  face  red.  Some  had  eagles’ 
feathers  in  their  hair,  and  all 
wore  robes  or  blankets.  Some 
carried  guns.  Others  had  sticks  about  as  long  as 
my  arm.  With  these  sticks  they  beat  any  woman 
who  would  not  help  in  the  clean-up. 

I fled  to  my  father,  but  I dared  not  cry  out, 
for  I,  too,  was  scared. 

“One  of  you  women  go  out  and  help  clean 
up  the  village,”  said  the  Black  Mouths.  They 
spoke  sternly,  and  several  of  them  at  once. 

Like  all  the  other  women,  my  mothers  were 
afraid  of  the  Black  Mouths  “We  will  go,” 


LIFE  IN  AN  EARTH  LODGE 


53 


said  both,  and  Red  Blossom  caught  up  broom 
and  skin  basket  and  went  out. 

The  Black  Mouths  went  also,  and  I followed 
to  see  what  they  did.  They  went  into  another 
lodge  not  far  away.  I heard  voices,  then  the 
report  of  a gun,  and  a woman  screamed.  After 
a time,  the  Black  Mouths  came  out  driving 
before  them  a woman,  very  angry,  but  much 
frightened.  She  had  not  moved  quickly  enough 
to  get  her  basket,  and  one  of  the  Black  Mouths 
had  fired  his  gun  at  her  feet  to  frighten  her. 
The  gun  was  loaded  only  with  powder. 

After  they  had  made  the  rounds  of  the  vil- 
lage, the  Black  Mouths  returned  to  the  lodge 
of  their  “keeper,”  a man  named  Crow  Paunch. 
Soon  we  heard  singing  and  drumming,  and 
knew  they  were  singing  some  of  the  society’s 
songs. 

When  they  had  sung  three  or  four  times, 
there  was  silence  for  a while,  as  if  a pipe  were 
being  passed.  Then  all  came  out  and  made 
the  rounds  a second  time,  to  see  if  the  work 
of  cleaning  was  done  and  to  hurry  up  the  lag- 
gards. The  village  was  all  cleaned  before  noon; 
but  some  of  the  women  got  their  work  done 
sooner  than  others. 

After  the  clean-up  the  village  children  came 
out  to  play  in  the  spaces  between  the  lodges, 
now  swept  clean  and  smooth.  It  was  in  these 
smooth  spaces  that  the  boys  liked  to  play  at 
throw  sticks,  light  willow  rods  which  they 
darted  against  the  ground,  whence  they  bounded 
to  a great  distance. 


SIXTH  CHAPTER 

CHILDHOOD  GAMES  AND  BELIEFS 

White  people  seem  to  think  that  Indian 
children  never  have  any  play  and  never  laugh. 
Such  ideas  seem  very  funny  to  me.  How  can 
any  child  grow  up  without  play?  I have  seen 
children  at  our  reservation  school  playing  white 
men’s  games — baseball,  prisoners’  base,  mar- 
bles. We  Indian  children  also  had  games.  I 
think  they  were  better  than  white  children’s 
games. 

I look  back  upon  my  girlhood  as  the  happi- 
est time  of  my  life.  How  I should  like  to  see 
all  my  little  girl  playmates  again!  Some  still 
live,  and  when  we  meet  at  feasts  or  at  Fourth- 
of-July  camp,  we  talk  of  the  good  times  we  had 
when  we  were  children. 

My  little  half  sister  was  my  usual  playmate. 
She  was  two  years  younger  than  I,  and  I loved 


54 


CHILDHOOD  GA MES  A ND  BELIEFS 


55 


her  dearly.  She  had  a pretty  name,  Cold  Med- 
icine. On  our  prairies  grows  a flower  with  long, 
yellow  root.  In  old  times,  if  a warrior  was  run- 
ning from  enemies  and  became  wearied  he 
chewed  a bit  of  the  root  and  rubbed  it  on  his 
eyelids.  It  made  his  eyes  and  tongue  feel  cold 
and  kept  him  awake.  The  flower  for  this  rea- 
son was  called  cold  medicine.  When  my  father 
spoke  my  sister’s  name,  it  made  him  think  of 
this  flower  and  of  the  many  times  he  had  bravely 
gone  out  with  war  parties. 

For  playgrounds  my  little  sister  and  I had 
the  level  spaces  between  the  lodges  or  the 
ground  under  the  corn  stage,  in  sunny  weather; 
and  the  big,  roomy  floor  of  the  earth  lodge, 
if  it  rained  or  the 
weather  were  chill. 

We  liked,  too,  to 
play  in  the  lodge  in 
the  hot  days  of  the 
Cherry  moon;  for  it 
was  cool  inside, 
never  hot  and  stuffy 
like  a white  man’s 
house.  In  the  fall, 
when  the  air  was 
frosty,  the  sun  often 
shone,  and  we  could 
play  in  the  big  yellow  sunspot  that  fell  on  the 
floor  through  the  smoke  hole. 

We  liked  to  play  at  housekeeping,  especially 
in  the  warm  spring  days,  when  we  had  returned 
from  winter  camp  and  could  again  play  out-of- 


56 


WAHEENEE 


doors.  With  the  help  of  the  neighbors’  chil- 
dren, we  fetched  long  forked  sticks.  These  we 
stacked  like  a tepee  frame  and  covered  with 
robes  that  we  borrowed.  To  this  play  tent  we 
brought  foods  and  had  a feast. 

Sometimes  little  boys  joined  in  our  play; 
and  then  it  was  like  real  housekeeping.  We 
girls  chose  each  a little  boy  for  husband.  To 
my  little  husband  I said,  “Old  man,  get  your 
arrows,  and  go  kill  some  buffaloes.  We  are 
hungry.  Go  at  once!” 

My  little  husband  hastened  to  his  mother 
and  told  her  our  needs.  She  laughed  and  gave 
him  a boiled  buffalo  tongue;  or  perhaps  pem- 
mican,  dried  meat  pounded  fine  and  mixed 
with  marrow  fat.  This  and  the  foods  which 
the  other  little  husbands  fetched  us,  we  girls 
laid  on  fresh,  clean  grass  that  we  pulled.  Then 
we  sat  down  to  feast,  the  little  girls  on  one  side 
of  the  fireplace,  the  little  boys  on  the  other, 
just  as  we  had  seen  men  and  women  sit  when 
they  feasted.  Only  there  really'  ‘was  no  fire- 
place. We  just  made  believe  there  was. 

In  summer,  my  little  sister  and  I often  went 
to  the  river  for  wet  clay,  which  we  modeled  into 
figures.  There  is  a smooth,  blue  clay  found 
in  places  at  the  water’s  edge,  very  good  for 
modeling.  We  liked  best  to  make  human  fig- 
ures, man,  woman,  or  little  child.  We  dried 
them  in  the  shade,  else  the  sun  cracked  them. 
I fear  they  were  not  very  beautiful.  When  we 
made  a mud  man,  we  had  to  give  him  three 
legs  to  make  him  stand  up. 


CHILDHOOD  GA MES  AND  BELIEFS 


57 


I had  a doll,  woven  of  rushes,  that  Turtle 
made  me.  It  really  was  not  a doll,  but  a cra- 
dle, such  as  Indian  women  used  for  carrying  a 
small  child.  In  winter  I had  my  deer-skin 
doll,  with  the  beads  for  eyes.  My  grand- 
mother had  made  me  a little  bed  for  my  dolls. 
The  frame  was  of  willows,  and  it  was  covered 
with  gopher  skins,  tanned  and  sewed  together. 
In  this  little  bed  my  sister  and  I used  to  put  our 
dollies  to  sleep. 

We  had  a game  of  ball  much  like  shinny.  It 
was  a woman’s  game,  but  we  little  girls  played 
it  with  hooked  sticks.  We  also  had  a big,  soft 
ball,  stuffed  with  antelope 
hair,  which  we  would 
bounce  in  the  air  with  the 
foot.  The  game  was  to  see 
how  long  a girl  could 
bounce  the  ball  without 
letting  it  touch  the  ground. 

Some  girls  could  bounce  it 
more  than  a hundred  times. 

It  was  lots  of  fun. 

We  coasted  in  winter, 
on  small  sleds  made  of 
buffalo  ribs;  but  coasting 
on  the  snow  was  rather  for  boys  and  older 
girls.  There  was  another  kind  of  coaster  that  we 
girls  liked.  A buffalo  skin  has  the  hair  lying 
backwards,  towards  the  flanks.  I would  borrow 
a skin  of  my  mothers  and  tie  a thong  through 
two  of  the  stake  holes  at  the  head  or  neck,  to 
draw  it  by.  Such  a skin  made  a good  coaster  even 


58 


WAHEENEE 


in  summer  on  a steep  hillside;  for,  laid  head  for- 
ward, it  slid  smoothly  over  the  soft  grass. 

Girls  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  were  fond  of 
playing  at  “tossing  in  a blanket,”  or  “foot- 

moving,”  as  we  called 
it.  There  were  fifteen 
) or  twenty  players.  A 
newly  dried  skin  was 
borrowed,  one  that 
was  scraped  clean  of 
hair.  There  were  al- 
ways holes  cut  in  the 
edges  of  a hide,  to 
stake  it  to  the  ground 
while  drying.  Into 
each  hole  a small  hard 
wood  stick  was  now 
thrust  and  twisted 
around,  for  a handle. 

Along  the  ditch  at 
the  edge  of  the  village 
grew  many  tall  weeds.  The  players  pulled 
armfuls  of  these  and  made  them  into  a pile. 
They  laid  the  hide  on  this  pile  of  weeds;  and, 
with  a player  at  every  one  of  the  stick  handles, 
they  stretched  the  hide  taut. 

A girl  now  lay  downward  on  the  hide.  With 
a quick  pull,  the  others  tossed  her  into  the  air, 
when  she  was  expected  to  come  down  on  her 
feet,  to  be  instantly  tossed  again.  The  game 
was  to  see  how  many  times  she  could  be  tossed 
without  falling.  A player  was  often  tossed 
ten  or  more  times  before  she  lost  her  balance. 


CHILDHOOD  GA  MES  A ND  BELIEFS  59 

Each  time,  as  she  came  down,  she  kept  turning 
in  one  direction,  right  or  left.  When  at  last 
she  fell,  the  pile  of  weeds  saved  her  from  any 
hurt. 

We  called  the  game  eetseepadahpakeep  or 
foot-moving,  from  the  player’s  habit  of  wrig- 
gling her  feet  when  in  the  air.  We  thought  this 
wriggling,  or  foot  moving,  a mark  of  skill. 

But,  if  my  mothers  let  me  play  much  of  the 
time,  they  did  not  forget  to  teach  me  good 
morals.  “We  are  a family  that  has  not  a bad 
woman  in  it,”  they  used  to  say.  “You  must 
try  hard  not  to  be  naughty.” 

My  grandfather  Big  Cloud  often  talked  to 
me.  “My  granddaughter,”  he  would  say,  “try 
to  be  good,  so  that  you  will  grow  up  to  be  a 
good  woman.  Do  not  quarrel  nor  steal.  Do 
not  answer  anyone  with  bad  words.  Obey 
your  parents,  and  remember  all  that  I say.” 

When  I was  naughty  my  mothers  usually 
scolded  me;  for  they  were  kind  women  and  did 
not  like  to  have  me  punished. 

Sometimes  they  scared  me  into 
being  good,  by  saying,  “The 
owl  will  get  you.”  This  saying 
had  to  do  with  an  old  custom 
that  I will  explain. 

Until  I was  about  nine 
years  old,  my  hair  was  cut  short, 
with  a tuft  on  either  side  of  my 
head,  like  the  horns  of  an  owl.  Turtle  used  to 
cut  my  hair.  She  used  a big,  steel  knife.  In 
old  times,  I have  heard,  a thin  blade  of  flint  was 

1eet  see  pa  dah'  pa  kee 


60  WAHEENEE 

used.  I did  not  like  Turtle’s  hair  cutting 
a bit,  because  she  pulled. 

“Why  do  you  cut  my  hair,  grandmother?” 
I asked. 

“It  is  our  custom,”  Turtle  answered.  “I 
will  tell  you  the  story.” 

“Thousands  and  thousands  of  years  ago, 
there  lived  a great  owl.  He  was  strong  and 
had  magic  power,  but  he  was  a bad  bird.  When 
the  hunters  killed  buffaloes,  the  owl  would  turn 
all  the  meat  bitter,  so  that  the  Indians  could 
not  eat  it,  and  so  they  were  always  hungry. 

“On  this  earth  then  lived  a young  man 
called  the  Sun’s  Child;  for  the  sun  was  his 
father.  He  heard  how  the  Indians  were  made 
hungry,  and  came  to  help  them. 

“The  owl  lived  in  a hollow  tree  that  had  a 
hole  high  up  in  its  trunk.  The  Sun’s  Child 
climbed  the  tree,  and  when  the  owl  put  his  head 
out  of  the  hole,  he  caught  the  bird  by  the  neck. 

“‘Do  not  ‘let  the  Sun’s  Child  kill  me!’ the 
owl  cried  to  the  Indians.  ‘I  have  been  a bad 
bird;  now  I will  be  good  and  I will  help  your 
children. 

“ ‘As  soon  as  a child  is  old  enough  to  under- 
stand you  when  you  speak  to  him,  cut  his  hair 
with  two  tufts  like  my  own.  Do  this  to  make 
him  look  like  an  owl;  and  I will  remember  and 
make  the  child  grow  up  strong  and  healthy. 
If  a child  weeps  or  will  not  obey,  say  to  him, 
“The  owl  will  get  you!”  This  will  frighten  him, 
so  that  he  will  obey  you.’” 


Plate  I. — Offering  food  before  the  shrine  of  the  Big  Birds’  ceremony 


CHILDHOOD  GA  MES  A ND  BELIEFS 


63 


It  was  thus  my  mothers  frightened  me  when 
I was  naughty.  Red  Blossom  would  call,  “0 
owl,  I have  a bad  daughter.  Come.” 

“I  will  be  good,  I will  be  good!”  I would 
cry,  as  I ran  to  my  father.  I knew  he  would 
not  let  the  owl  hurt  me. 

My  old  grandfather,  Missouri  River,  taught 
me  of  the  gods.  He  was  a medicine  man  and 
very  holy,  and  I was  rather  afraid  of  him.  He 
used  to  sit  on  the  bench  behind  the  fire,  to 
smoke.  He  had  a long  pipe,  of  polished  black 
stone.  He  liked  best  to  smoke  dried  tobacco 
blossoms  which  he  first  oiled  with  buffalo  fat. 

One  day,  as  he 
sat  smoking,  I asked 
him,  “Grandfather, 
who  are  the  gods?” 

Missouri  River 
took  a long  pull  at 
his  pipe,  blew  the 
smoke  from  his  nos- 
trils, and  put  the 
stem  from  his  mouth. 

“Little  granddaugh- 
ter,” he  answered, 

“this  earth  is  alive 
and  has  a soul  or 
spirit,  just  as  you 
have  a spirit.  Other  things  also  have  spirits,  the 
sun,  clouds,  trees,  beasts,  birds.  These  spirits  are 
our  gods.  We  pray  to  them  and  offer  them  food, 
that  they  may  help  us  when  we  have  need.” 


64 


WAHEENEE 


“Do  the  spirits  eat  the  food!”  I asked.  I 
had  seen  my  grandfather  set  food  before  the 
two  skulls  of  the  Big  Birds’  ceremony. 

“No,”  said  my  grandfather,  “They  eat  the 
food’s  spirit;  for  the  food  has  a spirit  as  have  all 
things.  When  the  gods  have  eaten  of  its  spirit, 
we  often  take  back  the  food  to  eat  ourselves.” 

“How  do  we  know  there  are  gods,  grand- 
father?” I asked. 

“They  appear  to  us  in  our  dreams.  That 
is  why  the  medicine  man  fasts  and  cuts  his 
flesh  with  knives.  If  he  fasts  long,  he  will  fall 
in  a vision.  In  this  vision  the  gods  will  come 
and  talk  with  him.” 

“What  are  the  gods  like?”  I asked. 

“Like  beings  that  live  on  this  earth.  Some 
are  as  men.  Others  are  as  birds,  or  beasts,  or 
even  plants  and  other  things.  Not  all  the  gods 
are  good.  Some  seek  to  harm  us.  The  good 
gods  send  us  buffaloes,  and  rain  to  make  our 
corn  grow.” 

“Do  they  send  us  thunder?”  I asked.  There 
had  been  a heavy  storm  the  day  before. 

“The  thunder  bird  god  sends  us  thunder,”  said 
my  grandfather.  “He  is  like  a great  swallow, 
with  wings  that  spread  out  like  clouds.  Light- 
ning is  the  flash  of  his  eyes.  His  scream  makes 
the  thunder. 

“Once  in  Five  Villages,”  my  grandfather 
went  on,  “there  lived  a brave  man  who  owned  a 
gun.  One  day  a storm  blew  up.  As  the  man 
sat  in  his  lodge,  there  came  a clap  of  thunder  and 
lightning  struck  his  roof,  tearing  a great  hole. 


CHILDHOOD  GAMES  AND  BELIEFS 


65 


“This  did  not  frighten  the  man  at  all. 
Indeed,  it  angered  him.  He  caught  up  his  gun 
and  fired  it  through  the  hole  straight  into  the 
sky.  ‘You  thunder  bird,’  he  shouted,  ‘stay 
away  from  my  lodge.  See  this  gun.  If  you 
come,  I will  shoot  at  you  again!’” 

My  grandfather  paused  to  fill  his  pipe. 
“That  was  a brave  man,”  he  said  as  he  reached 
for  a coal.  “Perhaps  the  thunder  bird  loves 
brave  men,  and  did  not  harm  him.  But  it  is 
not  well  to  provoke  the  gods.  My  little  grand- 
daughter should  never  laugh  at  them  nor  speak 
of  them  lightly.” 

My  grandfather  spoke  very  solemnly. 


SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

KINSHIP,  CLAN  COUSINS 

We  Hidatsas  do  not  reckon  our  kin  as 
white  men  do.  If  a white  man  marries,  his 
wife  is  called  by  his  name;  and  his  children  also, 
as  Tom  Smith,  Mary  Smith.  We  Indians  had 
no  family  names.  Every  Hidatsa  belonged  to 
a clan;  but  a child,  when  he  was  born,  became  a 
member  of  his  mother’s,  not  his  father’s  clan. 

An  Indian  calls  all  members  of  his  clan  his 
brothers  and  sisters.  The  men  of  his  father’s 
clan  he  calls  his  clan  fathers;  and  the  women, 
his  clan  aunts.  Thus  I was  born  a member  of 
the  Tsistska l,  or  Prairie  Chicken  clan,  because 
my  mother  was  a Tsistska . My  father  was  a 
member  of  the  Meedeepahdee ,2  or  Rising  Water 
clan.  Members  of  the  Tsistska  clan  are  my 
brothers  and  sisters;  but  my  father’s  clan  broth- 
ers, men  of  the  Meedeepahdee,  are  my  clan 
fathers,  and  his  clan  sisters  are  my  clan  aunts. 

1Tsist'  ska  2Mee  dee  pah'  dee 
66 


KINSHIP,  CLAN  COUSINS 


67 


These  relations  meant  much  to  us  Indians. 
Members  of  a clan  were  bound  to  help  one 
another  in  need,  and  thought  the  gods  would 
punish  them  if  they  did  not.  Thus,  if  my  mother 
was  in  need,  members  of  the  Tsistska  clan  helped 
her.  If  she  was  hungry,  they  gave  her  food. 
If  her  child  was  naughty,  my  mother  called  in  a 
Meedeepahdee  to  punish  him,  a clan  father,  if 
the  child  was  a boy;  if  a girl,  a clan  aunt;  for 
parents  did  not  punish  their  own  children. 
Again,  when  my  father  died,  his  clan  fathers 
and  clan  aunts  it  was,  who  bore  him  to  the  bur- 
ial scaffold  and  prayed  his  ghost  not  to  come 
back  to  trouble  the  villagers. 

Another  clan  relative  is  makutsatee,1  or  clan 
cousin.  I reckon  as  my  clan  cousins  all  mem- 
bers of  my  tribe  whose  fathers  are  my  clan 
fathers.  Thus,  my  mother,  I have  said,  was  a 
Prairie  Chicken ; my  father,  a member  of  the 
Meedeepahdee,  or  Rising  Water,  clan.  Another 
woman,  of  what  clan  does  not  matter,  is  also 
married  to  a Meedeepahdee ; her  children  will  be 
my  clan  cousins,  because  their  father,  being  a 
Meedeepahdee,  is  my  clan  father. 

Clan  cousins  had  a custom  that  will  seem 
strange  to  white  people.  We  Indians  are  proud, 
and  it  makes  our  hearts  sore  if  others  make  mock 
of  us.  In  olden  times  if  a man  said  to  his  friend, 
even  in  jest,  “You  are  like  a dog,”  his  friend 
would  draw  his  knife  to  fight.  I think  we  Indians 
are  more  careful  of  our  words  than  white  men  are. 

But  it  is  never  good  for  a man  not  to  know  his 
faults,  and  so  we  let  one’s  clan  cousins  tease  him 

1ma  kiit'  sa  tee 


68 


WAHEENEE 


for  any  fault  he  had.  Especially  was  this  teasing 
common  between  young  men  and  young  women. 
Thus  a young  man  might  be  unlucky  in  war. 
As  he  passed  the  fields  where  the  village  women 

hoed  their  corn,  he 
would  hear  some  mis- 
chievous girl,  his  clan 
cousin,  singing  a song 
taunting  him  for  his 
ill  success.  Were  any 
one  else  to  do  this, 
the  young  man  would 
be  ready  to  fight;  but, 
seeing  that  the  singer 
was  his  clan  cousin, 
ne  would  laugh  and 
call  out,  “Sing  louder 
cousin,  sing  louder, 
that  I may  hear  you.” 
I can  best  explain 
this  custom  by  telling  you  a story: 

Story  of  Snake  Head-Ornament 
A long  time  ago,  in  one  of  our  villages  at 
Knife  river,  lived  a man  named  Mapuksaokihe,1 
or  Snake  Head-Ornament.  He  was  a great 
medicine  man.  In  a hole  in  the  floor  of  his 
earth  lodge,  there  lived  a bull  snake.  Snake 
Head-Ornament  called  the  bull  snake  “father.” 

When  Snake  Head-Ornament  was  invited 
to  a feast,  he  would  paint  his  face,  wrap  him- 
self in  his  best  robe  and  say,  “Come,  father; 
let  us  go  and  get  something  to  eat.” 

!Ma  puk'  sa  5 kee  h§ 


KINSHIP,  CLAN  COUSINS 


69 


The  bull  snake  would  creep  from  his  hole, 
crawl  up  the  man’s  body  and  coil  about  his 
neck,  thrusting  his  head  over  the  man’s  forehead; 
or  he  would  coil  about  the  man’s  head  like  the 
headcloth  of  a hunter,  with  his  head  thrust 
forward,  as  I have  said. 

Bearing  the  snake  thus  on  his  head,  Snake 
Head-Ornament  would  enter  the  lodge  where 
the  feast  was  held  and  sit  down  to  eat.  The 
snake,  however,  did  not  eat  of  the  food  that 
Snake  Head-Ornament  ate.  The  snake’s  food 
was  scrapings  of  buffalo  hides  that  the  women 
of  the  lodge  fed  him. 

When  Snake  Head-Ornament  came  home, 
he  would  say  to  the  bull  snake,  “Father,  get 
off.”  And  the  snake  would  crawl  down  the 
man’s  body  and  into  his  den  again. 

Snake  Head-Ornamentfasted  and  had  a vision. 
In  the  vision  his  gods,  he  thought,  bade  him  go  to 
war.  He  made  up  a war  party  and  led  it  against 
enemies  on  the  Y ellowstone  river.  The  party  not 
only  killed  no  enemies,  but  lost  three  of  their  own 
men;  and  they  thought  Snake  Head-Ornament 
was  to  blame  for  it.  “You  said  your  prayers  were 
strong,”  they  said;  “and  we  have  lost  three  men! 
Your  gods  have  not  helped  us.” 

Snake  Head-Ornament  thought  his  gods  were 
angry  with  him;  and  when  he  came  home  he 
went  about  crying  and  mourning  and  calling 
upon  his  gods  to  give  him  another  vision.  “Pity  me, 
gods,”  he  cried,  “make  me  strong  that  I may 
bring  home  scalps  and  horses.”  He  was  a brave 
man,  and  his  bad  fortune  made  his  heart  sore. 


70 


WAHEENEE 


In  those  days,  when  a man  mourned  he  cut 
off  his  hair,  painted  his  body  with  white  clay, 
and  threw  away  his  moccasins.  He  also  cut  his 
flesh  with  a knife  or  some  sharp  weapon.  Now 

when  a man  sought  a vision 
from  the  gods,  he  wept  and 
mourned,  that  the  gods 
might  have  pity  on  him;  and 
for  this  he  went  away  from 
the  village,  alone,  into  the 
hills.  So  it  happened,  that 
Snake  Head-Ornament,  on 
his  way  to  the  hills,  went 
mourning  and  crying  j past  a 
field  where  sat  a woman,  his 
clan  cousin,  on  her  watch- 
stage.  Seeing  him,  she  be- 
gan a song  to  tease  him: 

He  said,  “I  am  a young  bird!” 

If  a young  bird,  he  should  be  in  his  nest; 

But  he  comes  here  looking  gray, 

And  wanders  about  outside  the  village! 

He  said,  “I  am  a young  snake!” 

If  a young  snake,  he  should  be  in  the  hills  among  the  red  buttes; 

But  he  comes  here  looking  gray  and  crying, 

And  wanders  aimlessly  about! 

When  the  woman  sang,  “He  comes  here  look- 
ing gray,”  she  meant  that  the  man  was  gray 
from  the  white-clay  paint  on  his  body. 

Snake  Head-Ornament  heard  her  song;  but, 
knowing  she  was  his  clan  sister,  he  cried  out  to 
her:  “Sing  louder,  cousin!  You  are  right;  let 
my  ‘fathers’  hear  what  you  say.  I do  not  know 
if  they  will  feel  shame  or  not,  but  the  bull  snake 
and  the  bald  eagle  both  called  me  ‘son’!” 


KINSHIP,  CLAN  COUSINS 


71 


What  he  meant  was  that  the  bull  snake  and 
the  bald  eagle  were  his  dream  gods.  That  is, 
they  had  appeared  to  him  in  a dream,  and  prom- 
ised to  help  him  as  they  would  a son,  when  he 
went  to  war.  In  her  song,  the  woman  taunted  him 
with  this.  If  she  had  not  been  his  clan  cousin, 
he  would  have  been  beside  himself  with  anger. 
As  it  was,  he  but  laughed  and  did  not  hurt  her. 

But  the  woman  had  cause  for  singing  her 
song.  Years  before,  when  Snake  Head-Ornament 
was  a very  young  man,  he  went  out  with  a war 
party  and  killed  a Sioux  woman.  When  he 
came  home  the  people  called  him  brave,  and 
made  much  of  him;  and  he  grew  quite  puffed  up 
now  that  all  looked  up  to  him. 

Not  long  after,  he  was  made  a member  of  the 
Black  Mouth  society.  It  happened  one  day, 
that  the  women  were  building  a fence  of  logs, 
set  upright  around  the  village,  to  defend  it  from 
enemies.  Snake  Head-Ornament,  as  a member 
of  the  Black  Mouths,  was  one  of  the  men  over- 
seeing the  work.  This  woman,  his  clan  cousin, 
was  slow  at  her  task;  and,  to  make  her  move 
more  briskly,  Snake  Head-Ornament  came  close 
to  her  and  fired  off  his  gun  just  past  her  knees. 
She  screamed,  but  seeing  it  was  Snake  Head- 
Ornament  who  had  shot,  and  knowing  he  was 
her  clan  cousin,  she  did  not  get  angry.  Never- 
theless, she  did  not  forget!  And,  years  after, 
she  had  revenge  in  her  taunting  song. 


Young  men  going  out  with  a war  party  had 
to  take  much  chaffing  from  older  warriors  who 


72 


WAHEENEE 


were  clan  cousins.  My.  brother  was  once  out  with 
a party  of  fifty,  many  of  them  young  men.  They 
were  fleeing  from  a big  camp  of  Sioux  and  had 
ridden  for  two  days.  The  second  night  one  of 
the  younger  men,  a mere  lad,  fell  asleep  as  he 
rode  his  pony.  An  older  warrior,  his  clan  cousin, 
fired  a gun  past  the  lad’s  ear.  “Young  man,” 
he  cried,  “you  sleep  so  soundly  that  only  thun- 
der can  waken  you!”  The  rest  of  the  party 
thought  the  warrior’s  words  a huge  joke. 


EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

INDIAN  DOGS 

In  old  times  we  Indian  people  had  no  horses, 
and  not  many  families  of  my  tribe  owned  them 
when  I was  a little  girl.  But  I do  not  think 
there  ever  was  a time  when  we  Hidatsas  did  not 
own  dogs.  We  trained  them  to  draw  our  tent 
poles  and  our  loaded  travois.  We  never  used 
dogs  to  chase  deer,  as  white  men  do. 

Our  Hidatsa  dogs — the  breed  we  owned  when 
I was  a little  girl — had  broad  faces,  with  gentle, 
knowing  eyes;  erect,  pointed  ears;  and  tails  curl- 
ing, never  trailing  like  a wolf’s  tail.  They  had 
soft  silky  hair,  gray,  black,  or  spotted  red  or 
white.  All  had  stout,  heavy  legs.  I think  this 
sturdiness  was  because  we  saved  only  dogs  of 
stout  build  to  drag  our  travois. 

The  Teton  Sioux,  who  lived  south  of  us, 
owned  dogs  like  ours,  but  of  slenderer  build  and 


73 


74 


WAHEENEE 


legs.  They  liked  these  dogs,  I think,  because 
they  were  speedier;  for  the  Sioux  were  hunters, 
always  moving  from  place  to  place. 

Almost  every  family  in  Like-a-Fishhook  vil- 
lage owned  two  or  more  dogs;  and,  as  there  were 
about  seventy  lodges  in  the  village,  our  dogs 
made  a large  pack.  The  dogs  knew  every  man 
and  child  in  the  village,  and  being,  besides,  well 
trained,  seldom  bit  anyone.  But  they  were 
quick  to  wind  a stranger.  A visitor  from  another 
tribe  was  sure  to  be  beset  by  a troop  of  dogs, 
growling  and  barking  at  his  heels. 

The  dogs  had  one  habit  I liked.  Every 
evening  about  bedtime — and  bedtime  for  a lit- 
tle Indian  girl  was  early — some  dog  was  sure 
to  start  up,  wu-wu-wu!  And  all  the  others 
would  join  in,  even  the  little  puppies.  I used 
to  lie  in  my  bed  and  listen  to  them. 

About  midnight,  the  barking  would  start 
up  again,  especially  if  there  was  a moon,  and 
again  a little  before  daylight;  but  I was  usually 


asleep  at  these  hours. 
In  daytime  look- 
s were  always  on 
roofs  of  some  of 


the  lodges  watch- 


ing if  enemies  or 
buffaloes  were 


^ about.  If  they 
saw  our  hunters. 


with  meat,  coming  home  over  the  prairie,  these 
lookouts  would  cry  out,  “ Hey-da-ey!”1  And 
the  dogs,  knowing  what  the  cry  meant,  would 


INDIAN  DOGS 


75 


join  inwith  wu-u-u-u -”1  They  liked  fresh  buffalo 
meat  no  less  than  the  Indians. 

But  the  greatest  excitement  was  when 
enemies  were  seen.  The  lookouts  then  cried, 
“ Ahahuts 2 — they  come  against  us!”  Warriors,  on 
hearing  the  cry,  seized  weapons  and  ran  out  of 
their  lodges,  yelling  shrilly.  The  chiefs  sprang 
for  their  ponies,  twisting  lariats  into  the  ponies’ 
mouths  for  bridles.  Medicine  men  chanted  holy 
songs,  and  women  ran  about  calling  to  their  chil- 
dren. But  above  all  rose  the  barking  of  the 
dogs,  every  beast  joining  in  the  hubbub. 

One  day,  after  the  midday  meal — I think 
I was  then  eight  years  old — old  Turtle  went 
down  to  the  river  and  fetched  an  armful  of  dry 
willows.  They  were  about  four  feet  long  and 
as  thick  as  a child’s  wrist;  some  were  forked  at 
the  top.  She  set  them  in  a circle,  with  tops 
together  like  a tepee,  at  one  side  of  the  lodge 
entrance  near  the  place  where  the  dogs  slept. 

“What  are  you  doing,  grandmother?”  I asked. 

Turtle  did  not  answer  my  question.  “I 
want  to  get  some  dry  grass,”  she  said.  “Come 
and  help  me.” 

We  went  out  to  a place  in  the  hills  where 
was  some  long,  dead  grass.  Turtle  pulled  a 
big  armful,  piling  it  on  her  robe  which  she  spread 
on  the  ground.  She  drew  the  corners  of  the 
robe  together,  slung  the  bundle  over  her  shoul- 
der and  we  came  back  to  the  village. 

She  laid  the  grass  thickly  over  the  sides  of 
the  little  tepee,  leaning  chunks  of  wood  against 
it  to  keep  the  grass  in  place.  She  left  a door,  or 

1Wu-u-u  2 A ha  huts' 


76 


WAHEENEE 


opening,  in  front;  and  she  even  bound  a stick  over 
the  door,  like  the  pole  over  the  door  of  a hunting 
lodge.  Last,  she  put  grass  inside,  as  if  for  a bed. 

“Grandmother, 
what  are  you  doing?” 
I begged;  but  she  led 
me  into  the  lodge,  tell- 
ing me  nothing. 

I was  awakened 
early  the  next  morn- 
ing by  dogs  barking 
on  the  roof.  As  I lay 
listening,  I thought  I 
heard  a faint  whining  outside.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  place  where  the  little  grass  tepee  stood. 

I fell  asleep,  and  awoke  a second  time  to 
see  Red  Blossom  fanning  the  fire  with  a goose 
wing.  Breakfast  was  soon  ready,  of  fresh  boiled 
buffalo  meat.  The  hunters  had  come  in  only 
the  night  before,  and  they  had  brought  a fresh 
side-and-ribs  for  a present  to  my  father. 

After  the  meal  I saw  Turtle  gather  up  the 
scraps  of  meat  into  a wooden  bowl.  “Come,” 
she  said,  leading  me  out  of  the  lodge. 

She  stopped  before  the  tepee,  and  thrust  the 
bowl  of  scraps  within.  Again  I heard  the  faint 
whining.  I dropped  to  my  knees  and  looked  in. 
There  I saw  our  best  dog,  the  pet  of  us  all;  and 
beside  her  lay  four  little  puppies. 

“£7?,  sukkeets!”1  I cried,  “Oh,  good!”  And  I 
drew  the  puppies  out  one  by  one,  to  cuddle  them. 
The  mo  ther  dog  whined,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  me. 
She  was  a gentle  dog  and  did  not  snap  at  my  hand1. 

1suk'  keets 


INDIAN  DOGS 


77 


I do  not  know  whether  I or  the  puppies’ 
mother  cuddled  them  more,  the  next  few  days. 
One  puppy  I came  to  love  dearly.  He  was  a 
wriggling  little  thing,  with  a bob  tail  for  all  the 
world  like  a rabbit’s,  except 
that  it  hung  down.  There 
were  ten  or  more  bobtailed 
dogs  in  the  village  all  of  them 
born  so.  My  puppy  was 
black,  so  I named  him 
Sheepeesha ,i  or  Blackie. 

It  must  have  been  a 
funny  sight  to  see  me  take 
my  puppy  out  for  a walk. 

Stooping,  I would  lay  the 
puppy  between  my  shoul- 
ders and  draw  my  tiny  robe 
up  over  his  back;  and  I 
would  walk  off  proud  as  any  Indian  mother  of  her 
new  babe.  The  old  mother  dog  would  creep  half 
out  of  her  kennel,  following  me  with  her  gentle 
eyes.  I was  careful  not  to  go  out  of  her  sight. 

When  the  puppies  were  ten  days  old  my 
grandmother  brought  in  some  fresh  sage,  the 
kind  we  Indians  use  in  a sweat  lodge.  She  laid 
the  sage  by  the  fireplace  and  fetched  in  the  pup- 
pies, barring  the  door  so  that  the  mother  dog 
could  not  come  in.  I could  hear  the  poor  dog 
whining  pitifully. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do,  grandmother?” 
I asked. 

“I  am  going  to  smoke  the  puppies.” 

“Why,  grandmother?”  I cried. 

1Shee'  pee  sha 


78 


WAHEENEE 


“Because  the  puppies  are  old  enough  to  eat 
cooked  meat,  for  their  teeth  have  come  through. 
The  sage  is  a sacred  plant,  Its  smoke  will  make 
the  puppies  hungry,  so  that  they  will  eat.” 

While  she  was  speaking,  she  opened  my  little 
pet’s  jaws.  Sure  enough,  four  white  teeth  were 
coming  through  the  gums. 

Turtle  raked  some  coals  from  the  ashes,  and 
laid  on  them  a handful  of  the  sage.  A column  of 
thick  white  smoke  arose  upward  to  the  smoke  hole. 

My  grandmother  took  my  puppy  in  her  hands 
and  held  his  head  in  the  smoke.  The  poor  puppy 
struggled  and  choked.  Thick  spittle,  like  suds, 
came  out  of  his  mouth.  I was  frightened,  and 
thought  he  was  going  to  die. 

“The  smoke  will  make  the  puppy  healthy,” 
said  Turtle.  “Now  let  us  see  if  he  will  grow  up 
strong,  to  carry  my  little  granddaughter’s  tent.” 

She  lifted  the  puppy,  still  choking,  from  the 
floor,  and  let  him  fall  so  that  he  landed  on  his 
feet.  The  puppy  was  still  young  and  weak,  and 
he  was  strangling;  but  his  little  legs  stiffened, 
and  he  stood  without  falling. 

“Hey,  hey,”  laughed  my  grandmother.  “This 
is  a strong  dog!  He  will  grow  up  to  carry  your 
tent.”  For  in  old  times,  when  traveling,  we 
Hidatsas  made  our  dogs  drag  our  tents  on  poles, 
like  travois. 

Turtle  tried  the  other  three  puppies.  One,  not 
as  strong  as  the  rest,  fell  on  his  side.  “This  dog 
will  not  grow  up  strong,”  said  my  grandmother. 
“I  will  give  him  to  my  neighbor,  who  asks  for  one.” 


INDIAN  DOGS 


79 


She  now  lifted  a clay  pot  out  of  the  ashes, 
and  from  it  poured  something  into  a flat  bowl; 
corn  mush,  I think  it  was,  boiled  with  buffalo 
fats.  She  set  the  bowl  before  the  puppies.  They 
quickly  lapped  up  the  mush,  with  funny  red 
tongues.  My  little 
black  puppy  even 
gulped  down  a lump 
of  fat. 

Turtle  laughed.  “I 
told  you  your  puppy 
is  strong,”  she  cried. 

“He  will  soon  grow  up 
to  carry  your  tent.  But 
to  grow,  our  puppies  must  be  fed.  It  will  be 
your  work  to  feed  them.  See  they  do  not  starve.” 

But,  if  I had  to  feed  the  puppies,  my  grand- 
mother also  helped.  Indeed,  the  whole  family 
watched  to  see  that  they  had  enough.  If  fresh 
meat  was  brought  in,  we  always  boiled  some  and 
gave  to  the  puppies.  We  did  not  give  them  raw 
meat.  “It  is  not  good  for  puppies.  It  will  make 
them  sick,”  said  Turtle. 

But,  as  the  puppies  grew  up,  we  began  to 
feed  them  raw  meat.  My  grandmother  some- 
times boiled  corn  for  them,  into  a coarse  mush. 
They  were  fond  of  this.  As  they  grew  older, 
any  food  that  turned  sour  or  was  unfit  for  the 
family  to  eat  was  given  me  for  my  doggies.  They 
ate  it  greedily.  It  did  not  seem  to  harm  them. 

Sometimes  a deer  or  elk  was  killed,  that  was 
poor  in  flesh.  Such  a carcass  was  cut  up  and 
given  to  the  dogs  of  the  village,  and  of  course 
mine  got  their  share. 


80 


WAHEENEE 


When  several  buffaloes  were  killed,  the  hunt- 
ers often  could  not  carry  all  the  meat  home, 
and  took  only  the  best  cuts.  The  next  day 
any  one  who  wanted,  could  go  out  and  take 
the  cast-away  pieces  for  her  dogs.  Then,  there 
were  parts  that  we  always  threw  away  or  gave 
to  the  dogs.  The  tough,  outside  meat  of  a 
buffalo’s  hams  we  cut  off  and  saved  for  the  dogs. 
The  inside  meat,  next  the  bone,  we  thought 
our  very  best.  Hunters  were  fond  of  roasting 
it  before  the  fire,  on  two  stones. 

Even  in  famine  times  we  did  not  forget  our 
dogs;  but  we  sometimes  had  only  soft  bones  to 
give  them  that  had  been  broken  for  boiling. 
The  dogs  gnawed  these,  and  so  got  a little  food. 

We  Hidatsas  loved  our  good  dogs,  and  were 
kind  to  them. 


NINTH  CHAPTER 
TRAINING  A DOG 

Autumn  twice  came  around,  and  my  puppy 
had  grown  into  a romping  dog.  In  the  moon 
of  Yellow  Leaves,  my  tribe  went  again  into 
winter  camp.  We  returned  to  Like-a-Fishhook 
village  rather  early  in  the  spring.  Patches  of 
snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  ice  was  still 
firm  on  the  Missouri  when  we  crossed.  We 
reached  the  village  in  midafternoon. 

My  father  had  two  pack  horses  loaded  with 
our  stuff  and  our  dogs  dragged  well-laden  travois. 
While  my  mothers  were  unpacking,  my  father 
made  a fire.  He  drew  his  flint  and  steel,  and 
with  a bit  of  soft,  rotten  wood  for  tinder  struck 
a spark.  In  olden  times  the  Hidatsas  made 
fire  with  two  sticks.  “I  saw  very  old  men  make 
fire  thus,  when  I was  a lad,”  my  grandfather 
once  told  me.  I never  saw  it  done  myself. 

81 

6 


82 


WAHEENEE 


Small  Ankle  wrapped  the  spark,  caught  in 
the  tinder,  in  a little  bunch  of  dry  grass,  and 
waved  it  in  the  air  until  the  grass  was  ablaze. 
He  had  raked  together  some  bits  of  charcoal 
in  the  fireplace  and  on  them  laid  a few  dry- 
wood  splinters.  To  these  he  held  the  burning 
grass  and  soon  had  a fire. 

There  was  a little  firewood  in  the  lodge, 
left  from  the  previous  autumn,  but  not  enough 
to  keep  the  fire  going  long.  As  my  mothers 
were  still  unpacking,  my  father  offered  to  go 
out  and  get  wood  for  the  night.  Getting  wood, 
we  thought,  was  woman’s  work;  but  my  father 
was  a kind  man,  willing  to  help  his  wives. 

From  the  saddle  of  one  of  his  horses  Small 
Ankle  took  a rawhide  lariat,  and  to  one  end 
fastened  a short  stick.  There  were  some  cot- 
tonwoods under  the  river  bank,  not  far  from  the 
village.  Into  one  of  the  largest  trees  Small 
Ankle  threw  his  lariat  until  the  stick  caught  in 
some  dead  branches  overhead.  A sharp  pull 
broke  off  the  branches.  My  father  gathered 
them  up  and  bore  them  to  the  lodge. 

There  were  logs  and  dead  wood  lying  along 
the  river,  but  they  were  wet  with  the  snows. 
My  father  knew  the  dead  branches  in  the  trees 
would  be  dried  by  the  winds.  He  wanted  dry 
wood  to  kindle  a quick  fire. 

The  next  morning  after  we  had  eaten,  Red 
Blossom  took  her  ax,  and,  dragging  a travois 
from  its  place  against  the  fire  screen,  led  the 
way  out  of  the  lodge.  Strikes-Many  Woman 
followed  her.  Our  biggest  dog,  lying  outside, 


TRAINING  A DOG 


83 


saw  them  coming.  He  got  up,  shaking  himself, 
wagging  his  tail,  and  barking  wu-wu-wu!  Our 
dogs  were  always  ready  to  be  harnessed.  They 
liked  to  go  to  the  woods,  knowing  they  would 
be  fed  well  afterwards. 

This,  our  best  dog,  was  named  Akeekahee ,»  or 
Took-from-Him.  He  belonged  to  Red  Blossom. 
A woman  owning  a dog  would  ask  some  brave 
man  of  her  family  to  name  him  for  her;  and 
Red  Blossom  had  asked  my  grandfather,  Big 
Cloud,  to  name  her  dog.  Once  an  enemy  had 
stolen  his  horse,  but  Big  Cloud  gave  chase  and 
retook  his  horse  from  that  bad  enemy.  For  this, 
he  named  the  dog  Took-from-Him. 


My  mothers  harnessed  their  dogs,  four  in  num- 
ber and  started  off.  They  returned  a little  after 
midday;  first,  Red  Blossom, 


then  the  four  dogs,  marching  one  behind  the 
other,  Took-from-Him  in  the  lead.  Each  dog 
dragged  a travois  loaded  with  wood. 

XA  kee'  ka  hee 


84 


WAHEENEE 


My  mothers  dropped  their  loads  before  the 
lodge  entrance.  The  dogs  were  unhitched;  and, 
while  old  Turtle  fed  them,  Strikes-Many  Woman 
carried  the  wood  into  the  lodge  and  piled  it 
by  the  corral,  where  it  was  handy  to  the  fire. 

I was  eager  to  have  my  dog  broken  to  harness 
and  begged  my  grandmother  to  make  a travois 
for  him.  “I  will,”  she  said,  “but  wait  another 
moon.  Your  dog  will  then  be  fed  fat,  after  the 
long  winter.  A dog  should  be  two  years  old, 
and  strong,  when  he  is  broken.  To  work  a dog  too 
young  or  when  he  is  weak  will  hurt  his  back.” 

A month  after  this,  my  mothers  came  home 
one  afternoon  from  woodgathering,  dragging 
each  a cottonwood  pole  about  eight  feet  long. 
They  peeled  these  poles  bare  of  bark,  and  laid 
them  up  on  the  corn  stage  to  dry. 

“What  are  the  poles  for?”  I asked. 

“They  are  for  your  travois,”  said  my  grand- 
mother. “Your  dog  Sheepeesha  is  now  old  enough 
to  work;  and  my  little  granddaughter,  too,  must 
learn  to  be  useful.” 

I was  ready  to  cry  out  and  dance,  when  I 
heard  these  words  of  my  grandmother;  and  I 
thought  I could  never,  never  wait  until  those 
poles  dried.  The  heavy  ladder  we  used  for 
mounting  the  stage  lay  on  the  ground  when  not 
in  use.  I was  too  little  to  lift  it,  to  climb  up  to 
the  poles;  but  I went  every  day  to  stand  below 
and  gaze  at  them  longingly. 

One  afternoon  my  grandmother  fetched  the 
poles  into  the  lodge.  “They  are  dry  now,”  she 
said.  “I  will  make  the  travois  frame.” 


TRAINING  A DOG 


85 


With  her  big  knife  she  hacked  the  greater 
ends  of  the  poles  flat,  so  that  they  would  run 
smooth  on  the  ground.  The  small  ends  she 
crossed  for  the  joint,  cutting  a notch  in  each  to 
make  them  fit.  She  bound  the  joint  with  strips 
of  the  big  tendon  in  a buffalo’s  neck  that  we 
Indians  call  the  eetsuta1.  These  strips  drew 
taut  as  they  dried,  making  the  joint  firm. 

Turtle  now  drew  a saddle,  or  cushion,  over 
the  poles  just  under  the  joint,  sewing  it  down 
with  buckskin  thongs.  This  saddle  was  to  keep  the 
dog  from  fretting  his  shoulders  against  the  poles. 

The  hoop  for  the  basket  was  of  ash.  My 
father  webbed  it.  He  cut  a long,  thin  thong 
from  the  edges  of  a hide,  and  soaked  it  to  make 
it  soft.  Taking  some  wet  paint  in  his  palm,  he 
drew  the  thong  through  it,  thus  painting  it  a 
bright  red.  He  laced  the  thong  over  the  hoop 
and  my  grandmother  bound  the  basket  in  place. 


The  harness  was  of  two  pieces : a collar,  to  go 
around  the  dog’s  neck  ;and  a breast  thong,  that  was 
drawn  across  his  chest  and  through  a loop  in  the 
saddle,  was  lapped  once  or  twice  around  one  of  the 
travois  poles,  and  was  finally  carried  under  the 
dog’s  body  to  the  other  pole, where  it  wasmadefast. 

I could  hardly  wait  to  eat  my  breakfast  the 
next  morning,  for  my  mothers  had  promised  to 

1 eet  su'  ta 


86 


WAHEENEE 


take  me  with  them  to  gather  wood.  “And  we 
are  going  to  begin  training  your  dog  to-day,” 
they  told  me. 

I knew  a dog  should  be  fed  before  he  was 
harnessed,  and  I saved  half  my  breakfast  meat 
to  give  to  mine.  Owning  a dog,  and  invited  to  go 
with  my  mothers  to  get  wood,  I felt  that  in  spite 
of  my  girlish  years  I was  almost  a woman  now. 

Breakfast  ended,  Red  Blossom  fetched  the 
new  travois  and  laid  it  on  my  dog’s  back.  He 
looked  up,  puzzled,  then  sank  to  the  ground  and 
lay  wagging  his  tail  from  side  to  side,  sweeping 
a clean  place  in  the  dust.  Red  Blossom  bound 
the  collar  about  his  neck,  and  drew  and  fastened 
the  breast  thong.  While  she  was  doing  this  I 
gently  patted  my  dog’s  head. 

“ Nah!”  said  Red  Bloosom,  “Come!”  But 
my  doggie  was  a bit  frightened.  He  twisted 
about,  trying  to  rid  himself  of  the  travois,  but 
only  hurt  himself.  He  looked  up  at  me  and 
whined.  Red  Blossom  tied  a thong  to  his  col- 
lar and  put  the  end  in  my  hand.  “Lead  him,” 
she  said.  “He  will  follow  the  other  dogs.”  She 
led  off,  Strikes-Many  Woman  behind  her,  and 
the  dogs  followed  after,  in  a line. 

I tugged  at  my  dog’s  thong,  pursing  my  lips 
and  making  a whistling  sound,  as  Indians  do. 
My  doggie  understood.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and, 
seeing  the  other  dogs  moving  off,  followed  after 
the  last  one. 

We  thus  came  to  the  woods,  about  a mile  and 
a half  from  the  village.  The  dogs  sank  in  their 
tracks,  to  rest.  My  mothers  searched  about  for 


TRAINING  A DOG 


87 


dead-and-dry  wood,  which  they  cut  into  lengths 
of  two  feet  or  more,  and  piled  them  in  the  path 
near  the  dogs. 

When  they  had  enough  wood  cut,  my  mothers 
lifted  each  travois  by  its  basket,  and  turned  it 
so  that  the  dog’s  nose  was  pointed  toward  the 
village;  and  they  loaded  each  travois  with  a 
double  armful  of  wood,  bound  to  the  basket  with 
two  thongs.  My  two  mothers  then  lifted  each  a 
load  to  her  own  back,  and  started  to  the  village. 

I did  not  carry  any  load  myself,  as  my  shoul- 
ders were  not  strong  enough  for  such  heavy  work; 
but  I led  my  dog.  Not  a very  big  load  was  put 
on  him,  as  it  was  his  first.  I called  to  him,  tug- 
ging gently  at  the  thong.  Seeing  the  other  dogs 
ahead,  he  followed  willingly. 

Old  Turtle  awaited  us  at  the  door.  “Grand- 
mother,” I cried  joyfully,  “my  dog  has  brought 
home  a load  of  wood.  He  did  not  try  to  run 
away.”  Turtle  laughed,  and  helped  me  unload. 

That  evening  I was  sitting  by  the  fire  with 
my  good  dog,  for  Red  Blossom  had  let  me  bring 
him  into  the  lodge.  Now  and  then  I slipped 
him  a bit  of  meat  I had  saved  from  my  supper. 
My  father  had  laid  some  dry  sticks  on  the  fire, 
and  the  blaze  flickered  and  rose,  flickered  and  rose, 
making  post  and  rafter  yellow  with  its  light. 
Small  Ankle  sat  on  his  couch  smoking  his  pipe. 
Suddenly  I heard  the  clitter  of  the  hollow  hoofs 
as  the  lodge  door  was  raised  and  let  fall  again. 
I looked  up.  Coyote  Eyes,  a Ree  Indian,  was 
coming  around  the  screen. 


88 


WAHEENEE 


“Haul”1  cried  my  father,  making  a place 
for  him  on  the  couch.  Small  Ankle  was  a 
polite  man.  He  handed  his  pipe  to  the  Ree, 
who  took  big  pulls,  blowing  the  smoke  through 
his  nostrils. 

Coyote  Eyes  gave  the  pipe  back  to  my  father. 
“That  is  a fine  dog  you  have,”  he  said  to  me. 
“I  know  a story  of  my  tribe  about  two  dogs.” 

Being  but  a little  girl,  I did  not  think  it 
proper  for  me  to  talk  to  a stranger,  but  my  father 
answered  for  me,  “What  is  the  story?” 

“In  the  beginning,  my  tribe  came  out  of  a 
cave  in  the  earth,”  said  Coyote  Eyes.  “They 
journeyed  until  they  came  to  the  Missouri  river. 
‘Let  us  go  up  this  river,’  they  said,  ‘and  find  a 
place  to  build  our  villages.’  They  were  weary 
of  journeying. 

“They  had  two  dogs  in  the  camp.  One  was 
black;  his  name  was  Death.  The  other  was 

white,  and  her  name 
was  Sickness.  These 
dogs  were  asleep 
when  the  tribe  broke 
camp  the  next  morn- 
ing. The  people  were 
in  such  haste  to  be 
off  that  they  forgot 
to  waken  the  dogs. 

“The  third  day  after,  they  saw  two  great  fires 
sweeping  toward  them  over  the  prairie.  The 
women  cried  out  with  fear.  All  thought  that 
they  should  die. 


1Hau  (How) 


TRAINING  A DOG 


89 


“When  the  fires  came  near,  the  people  saw 
that  they  were  the  two  dogs,  Death  and  Sickness. 

“‘Do  not  fear,’  said  the  dogs.  ‘Our  hearts 
are  not  all  evil.  True,  we  will  bite  you,  because 
you  forgot  us;  but  we  will  also  live  with  you 
and  be  your  friends.  We  will  carry  your  bur- 
dens; and  when  we  die,  you  shall  eat  us.’ 

“The  dogs  grew  old.  The  white  one  died, 
and  her  skin  became  the  squash.  Now  our 
squashes  are  of  different  colors,  white,  gray, 
yellow,  spotted,  just  as  are  dogs.  These  squashes 
we  eat.  Also  we  Rees  eat  dog  meat;  for, 
before  he  died,  the  black  dog  said,  ‘You  shall 
eat  my  flesh.’ 

“And  to  this  day,  when  our  Ree  people  sicken 
and  die,  they  say,  ‘We  are  bitten  by  Sickness  and 
Death.’  ” 

My  father  smiled.  “We  Hidatsas  do  not 
eat  dogs,”  he  said;  and  then  to  me,  “Little 
daughter,  it  is  bedtime.” 

I did  not  always  obey  my  mothers;  for,  like 
all  little  girls,  I was  naughty  sometimes,  but  I 
dared  not  disobey  my  father. 

I put  my  dog  out  of  the  lodge,  and  went  to 
bed. 


TENTH  CHAPTER 

LEARNING  TO  WORK 

My  mothers  began  to  teach  me  household 
tasks  when  I was  about  twelve  years  old.  “You 
are  getting  to  be  a big  girl,”  they  said.  “Soon 
you  will  be  a woman,  and  marry.  Unless  you 
learn  to  work,  how  will  you  feed  your  family?” 

One  of  the  things  given  me  to  do  was  fetch- 
ing water  from  the  river.  No  spring  was  near 
our  village;  and,  anyhow,  our  prairie  springs 
are  often  bitter  with  alkali.  But  the  Missouri 
river,  fed  by  melting  snows  of  the  Montana 
mountains,  gave  us  plenty  of  fresh  water.  Missou- 
ri river  water  is  muddy;  but  it  soon  settles,  and  is 
cool  and  sweet  to  drink.  We  Indians  love  our 
big  river,  and  we  are  glad  to  drink  of  its  waters, 
as  drank  our  fathers. 

A steep  path  led  down  the  bank  to  the  water- 
ing place.  Down  this  path,  the  village  girls 


90 


LEARNING  TO  WORK 


91 


made  their  way  every  morning  to  get  water  for 
drinking  and  cooking.  They  went  in  little 
groups  or  in  pairs.  Two  girls,  cousins  or  chums, 
sometimes  swung  a freshly  filled  pail  from  a 
pole  on  their  shoulders. 

But  there  were  few  pails  of  metal  in  my  tribe, 
when  I was  a little  girl.  I used  to  fetch  water 
in  a clay  pot,  sometimes  in  a buffalo-paunch 
lining  skewered  on  a stick;  but  my  commonest 
bucket  was  of  a buffalo  heart  skin.  When  my 
father  killed  a buffalo,  he  took  out  the  heart 
skin,  and  filled  it  with  grass  until  it  dried.  This 
he  gave  to  Red  Blossom, 
sewed  a little  stick  on  each 
side  of  the  mouth;  and  bound 
a short  stick  and  sinews  be- 
tween them  for  handle.  Such 
a bucket  held  about  three 
pints.  It  was  a frail  looking 
vessel,  but  lasted  a long  time. 

We  girls  liked  to  go  to  the 
watering  place;  for,  while  we  were 
filling  our  buckets,  we  could  gossip 
with  our  friends.  For  older  girls 
and  young  men  it  was  a place  for 
courtship.  A youth,  with  painted 
face  and  trailing  hair  switch, 
would  loiter  near  the  path,  and  smile  slyly  at  his 
sweetheart  as  she  passed.  She  did  not  always 
smile  back.  Sometimes  for  long  weeks,  she  held 
her  eyes  away,  not  even  glancing  at  his  moccasins. 
It  was  a shy  smile  that  she  gave  him,  at  last.  Nor 
did  she  talk  with  her  love-boy — as  we  called 


92 


WAHEENEE 


him — when  others  were  about.  We  should  have 
thought  that  silly.  But  he  might  wait  for  her 
at  sunset,  by  her  father’s  lodge,  and  talk  with 
her  in  the  twilight. 

But  I had  other  tasks  besides  fetching  water. 
I learned  to  cook,  sweep,  and  sew  with  awl  and 
sinew.  Red  Blossom  taught  me  to  embroider 
with  quills  of  gull  and  porcupine,  dyed  in  colors. 
Sometimes  I helped  at  harder  work;  gathered 
drift  wood  at  the  river,  dressed  or  scraped  hides, 
and  even  helped  in  our  cornfield. 

I liked  to  go  with  my  mothers  to  the  corn- 
fields in  planting  time,  when  the  spring  sun  was 
shining  and  the  birds  singing  in  the  tree  tops. 
How  good  it  seemed  to  be  out  under  the  open 
sky,  after  the  long  months  in  our  winter  camp! 
A cottonwood  tree  stood  at  a turn  of  the  road  to 
our  field.  Every  season  a pair  of  magpies  built 
their  nest  in  it.  They  were  saucy  birds  and 
scolded  us  roundly  when  we  passed.  How  I used 
to  laugh  at  their  wicked  scoldings! 

I am  afraid  I did  not  help  my  mothers  much. 
Like  any  young  girl,  I liked  better  to  watch  the 
birds  than  to  work.  Sometimes  I chased  away 
the  crows.  Our  corn  indeed  had  many  enemies, 
and  we  had  to  watch  that  they  did  not  get  our 
crop.  Magpies  and  crows  destroyed  much  of  the 
young  corn.  Crows  were  fond  of  pulling  up  the 
plants  when  they  were  a half  inch  or  an  inch 
high.  Spotted  gophers  dug  up  the  roots  of  the 
young  corn,  to  nibble  the  soft  seed. 

When  our  field  was  all  planted,  Red  Blossom 
used  to  go  back  and  replant  any  hills  that  the 


LEARNING  TO  WORK 


93 


birds  had  destroyed.  Where  she  found  a plant 
missing,  she  dug  a little  hole  with  her  hand  and 
dropped  in  a seed,  or  I dropped  it  in  for  her. 

It  was  hard  work,  stooping  to  plant  in  the 
hot  sun,  and  Red  Blossom  never  liked  having  to 
go  over  the  field  a second  time.  “Those  bad 
crows,”  she  would  groan,  “they  make  us  much 
trouble.” 

My  grandmother  Turtle  made  scarecrows  to 
frighten  away  the  birds.  In 
the  middle  of  the  field  she  ^ n 
drove  two  sticks  for  legs, 
and  bound  two  other  sticks 
to  them  for  arms;  on  the 
top,  she  fastened  a ball  of 
cast-away  skins  for  a head. 

She  belted  an  old  robe  about 
the  figure  to  make  it  look 
like  a man.  Such  a scare- 
crow looked  wicked!  Indeed 
I was  almost  afraid  of  it 
myself.  But  the  bad 
crows,  seeing  the  scarecrow 
never  moved  from  its  place, 
soon  lost  their  fear,  and  came  back. 

In  the  months  of  midsummer,  the  crows  did 
not  give  us  much  trouble;  but,  as  the  moon  of 
Cherries  drew  near,  they  became  worse  than  ever. 
The  corn  had  now  begun  to  ear,  and  crows  and 
blackbirds  came  in  flocks  to  peck  open  the  green 
ears  for  the  soft  kernels.  Many  families  now 
built  stages  in  their  fields,  where  the  girls  and 
young  women  of  the  household  came  to  sit  and 


94 


WAHEENEE 


sing  as  they  watched  that  crows  and  other  thieves 
did  not  steal  the  ripening  grain. 

We  cared  for  our  corn  in  those  days,  as  we 
would  care  for  a child;  for  we  Indian  people  loved 
our  fields  as  mothers  love  their  children.  We 
thought  that  the  corn  plants  had  souls,  as  chil- 
dren have  souls,  and  that  the  growing  corn  liked 
to  hear  us  sing,  as  children  like  to  hear  their 
mothers  sing  to  them.  Nor  did  we  want  the 
birds  to  come  and  steal  our  corn,  after  the  hard 
work  of  planting  and  hoeing.  Horses,  too,  might 
break  into  the  field,  or  boys  might  steal  the  green 
ears  and  go  off  and  roast  them. 

A watchers’  stage  was  not  hard  to  build. 
Four  posts,  forked  at  the  tops,  upheld  beams, 
on  which  was  laid  a floor  of  puncheons,  or  split 
small  logs,  at  the  height  of  the  full  grown  corn. 
The  floor  was  about  four  feet  long  by  three  wide, 
roomy  enough  for  two  girls  to  sit  together  com- 
fortably. Often  a soft  robe  was  spread  on  the 
floor.  A ladder  made  of  the  trunk  of  a tree  rested 
against  the  stage.  The  ladder  had  three  steps. 

A tree  was  often  left  standing  in  the  field,  to 
shade  the  watchers’  stage.  If  the  tree  was  small 
and  more  shade  was  wanted,  a robe  was  stretched 
over  three  poles  leaned  against  the  stage.  These 
poles  could  be  shifted  with  the  sun. 

Girls  began  to  go  on  the  watchers’  stage 
when  about  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age,  and  many 
kept  up  the  custom  after  they  were  grown  up 
and  married.  Older  women,  working  in  the 
field  and  stopping  to  rest,  often  went  on  the 
stage  and  sang. 


LEARNING  TO  WORK 


95 


There  was  a watchers’  stage  in  my  mothers’ 
field,  where  my  sister,  Cold  Medicine,  and  I 
sat  and  sang;  and  in  the  two  weeks  of  the  ripen- 
ing season  we  were 
singing  most  of  the 
time.  We  looked  up- 
on watching  our  field 
as  a kind  of  lark.  We 
liked  to  sing,  and  now 
and  then  between 
songs  we  stood  up  to 
see  if  horses  had 
broken  into  the  field 
or  if  any  boys  were 
about.  Boys  of  nine 
or  ten  years  of  age 
were  quite  trouble- 
some. They  liked 
to  steal  the  green 
ears  to  roast  by  a fire  in  the  woods. 

I think  Cold  Medicine  and  I were  rather 
glad  to  catch  a boy  stealing  our  corn,  especially 
if  he  was  a clan  cousin,  for  then  we  could  call 
him  all  the  bad  names  we  wished.  “You  bad, 
bad  boy,”  we  would  cry.  “You  thief, — steal- 
ing from  your  own  relatives!  Nah,  nah, — go 
away.”  This  was  enough;  no  boy  stayed  after 
such  a scolding. 

Most  of  the  songs  we  sang  were  love-boy 
songs,  as  we  called  them;  but  not  all  were.  One 
that  we  younger  girls  were  fond  of  singing — girls, 


96 


WAIIEENEE 


that  is,  of  about  twelve  years  of  age— was  like 
this: 

You  bad  boys,  you  are  all  alike! 

Your  bow  is  like  a bent  basket  hoop; 

Your  arrows  are  fit  only  to  shoot  into  the  air; 

You  poor  boys,  you  must  run  on  the  prairie  barefoot,  because  you 
have  no  moccasins! 

This  song  we  sang  to  tease  the  boys  who  came 
to  hunt  birds  in  the  near-by  woods.  Small 
boys  went  bird  hunting  nearly  every  day.  The 
birds  that  a boy  snared  or  shot  he  gave  to  his 
grandparents  to  roast  in  the  lodge  fire;  for, 
with  their  well-worn  teeth,  old  people  could  no 
longer  chew  our  hard,  dried  buffalo  meat. 

Here  is  another  song;  but,  that  you  may 
understand  it,  I will  explain  to  you  what  eekupa 1 
means.  A girl  loved  by  another  girl  as  her  own 
sister  was  called  her  eekupa.  I think  your 
word  “chum,”  as  you  explain  it,  has  nearly  the 
same  meaning.  This  is  the  song: 

“My  eekupa,  what  do  you  wish  to  see?”  you  said  to  me. 

What  I wish  to  see  is  the  corn  silk  peeping  out  of  the  growing  ear; 

But  what  you  wish  to  see  is  that  naughty  young  man  coming! 

Here  is  a song  that  older  girls  sang  to  tease 
young  men  of  the  Dog  Society  who  happened 
to  be  going  by: 

You  young  man  of  the  Dog  Society,  you  said  to  me, 

“When  I go  east  with  a war  party,  you  will  hear  news  of  me  how 
brave  I am!” 

I have  heard  news  of  you; 

When  the  fight  was  on,  you  ran  and  hid; 

And  you  still  think  you  are  a brave  young  man! 

Behold,  you  have  joined  the  Dog  Society; 

But  I call  you  just  plain  dogl 

Songs  that  we  sang  on  the  watchers’  stage 
we  called  meedaheekap  or  gardeners’  songs.  I 
have  said  that  many  of  them  were  love-boy 

1 ee'  ku  pa  2 mee  da'  hee  ka 


LEARNING  TO  WORK 


97 


songs,  and  were  intended  to  tease.  We  called 
a girl’s  sweetheart  her  love-boy.  All  girls,  we 
know,  like  to  tease  their  sweethearts. 

At  one  side  of  our  field  Turtle  had  made  a 
booth,  diamond  willows  thrust  in  the  ground  in 
a circle,  with  leafy 
tops  bent  over 
and  tied  together. 

In  this  booth,  my 
sister  and  I,  with 
our  mothers  and 
old  Turtle,  cooked 
our  meals.  We 
started  a fire  in 
the  booth  as  soon 
as  we  got  to  the 
field,  and  ate  our 
breakfast  often  at 
sunrise.  Our  food 
we  had  brought 
with  us,  usually  buffalo  meat,  fresh  or  dried.  Fresh 
meat  we  laid  on  the  coals  to  broil.  Dried  meat  we 
thrust  on  a stick  and  held  over  the  fire  to  toast. 

Sometimes  we  brought  a clay  cooking  pot, 
and  boiled  squashes.  We  were  fond  of  squashes 
and  ate  many  of  them.  We  sometimes  boiled 
green  corn  and  beans.  My  sister  and  I shelled 
the  corn  from  the  cob.  We  shelled  the  beans 
or  boiled  them  in  the  pod.  My  grandmother 
poured  the  mess  in  a wooden  bowl,  and  we  ate 
with  spoons  which  she  made  from  squash  stems. 
She  would  split  a stem  with  her  knife  and  put 
in  a little  stick  to  hold  the  split  open. 

7 


98 


WAHEENEE 


I do  not  think  anything  can  taste  sweeter 
than  a mess  of  fresh  corn  and  beans,  in  the  cool 
morning  air,  when  the  birds  are  twittering  and 
the  sun  is  just  peeping  over  the  tree  tops. 


ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 
PICKING  JUNE  BERRIES 

June  berry  time  had  come.  I was  now  four- 
teen years,  old  and  had  begun  to  think  myself 
almost  a young  woman.  Some  of  the  young 
men  even  smiled  at  me  as  I came  up  from  the 
watering  place.  I never  smiled  back,  for  I 
thought:  “My  father  is  a chief,  and  I belong 
to  one  of  the  best  families  in  my  tribe.  I will 
be  careful  whom  I choose  to  be  my  friends.” 

A little  north  of  my  father’s,  stood  the  earth 
lodge  of  Bear  Man’s  family.  Bear  Man  was 
an  eagle  hunter.  He  had  magic  snares  of  sacred 
hemp  plant  which  he  tossed  into  the  air  as  he 
prayed  to  the  eagle  spirits.  After  doing  so  he 
was  sure  to  catch  many  young  golden  eagles 
at  his  eagle  pit.  We  thought  him  a great  med- 
icine man. 

Bear  Man  had  a son  named  Sacred-Red- 
Eagle-Wing,  a straight-limbed,  rather  good- 


99 


100 


WAHEENEE 


looking  lad,  a year  older  than  myself.  Bear 
Man’s  father  died,  and  Bear  Man  cut  off  his 
long  hair  in  mourning.  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing 
made  a switch  of  his  father’s  hair,  tastefully 
spotting  it  with  little  lumps  of  spruce  gum 
mixed  with  red  ochre.  He  looked  quite  manly, 
I thought,  wearing  this  switch,  in  spite  of  his 
fifteen  years. 

My  father’s  earth  lodge  and  Bear  Man’s 
both  faced  eastward,  with  the  lodge  of  Blue 

Paint’s  family  stand- 
ing between;  but,  as 
I stood  at  my  father’s 
lodge  entrance,  I 
could  see  the  flat  top 
of  Bear  Man’s  lodge 
over  Blue  Paint’s 
roof.  Sacred-Red- 
Eagle -Wing  had 
joined  the  Stone 
Hammer  Society  a 
short  while  before, 
and  had  begun  to 
paint  his  face  like  a 
young  man . He 
would  get  up  on  his 
father’s  roof,  painted,  and  decked  out  in  hair 
switch,  best  leggings,  and  moccasins,  and  sing  his 
society’s  songs.  He  had  a fine  voice,  I thought; 
and  when  I went  out  with  my  buck-brush 
broom  to  sweep  the  ground  about  our  lodge 
entrance,  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing  would  sing 
harder  than  ever.  I thought  perhaps  he  did 


PICKING  JUNE  BERRIES 


101 


this  so  that  I would  hear  him.  I was  too  well- 
bred  to  look  up  at  him,  but  I did  not  always 
hurry  to  finish  my  sweeping. 

There  had  been  plenty  of  rain,  and  the  June 
berry  trees  were  now  loaded  with  ripe  fruit. 
We  Indians  set  great  store  by  these  berries, 
and  almost  every  family  dried  one  or  more  sack- 
fuls for  winter.  June  berries  are  sweet,  and, 
as  we  had  no  sugar,  we  were  fond  of  them. 

We  were  sitting  one  evening  at  our  supper. 
Red  Blossom  had  gone  into  the  woods  earlier 
in  the  day  and  fetched  home  some  ripe  June 
berries  which  we  were  eating.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  we  ended  our  meal  with  our  kettle;  half- 
full of  boiled  meat.  “We  will  save  this  meat 
until  morning,”  Red  Blossom  said.  “We  must 
breakfast  early,  for  Strikes-Many  Woman  and 
I are  going  with  a party  to  pick  June  berries. 
Our  daughter  may  go  with  us,  if  she  will.” 

I was  quite  happy  when  I heard  this.  I 
had  seen  my  two  mothers  getting  ready  their 
berry  sacks;  and,  looking  over  to  the  bench  where 
they  lay,  I now  saw  that  a small  sack  had  been 
laid  out  for  me. 

Red  Blossom  dipped  her  fingers  into,  the 
kettle  for  a lump  of  fat  and  continued:  “The 
mother  of  that  young  man,  Sacred-Red-Eagle- 
Wing,  said  to  me  to-day,  ‘If  your  daughter  goes 
berrying  to-morrow,  my  son  wishes  to  go  with 
her.  He  will  take  his  bow  and  keep  off  enemies.” 

I did  not  blush,  for  we  Indian  girls  had  dark 
skins  and  painted  our  cheeks;  but  I felt  my  heart 
jump.  I looked  down  at  the  floor,  then  got 


102 


WAHEENEE 


up  and  went  about  my  work,  humming  a song 
as  I did  so;  for  I thought, “I  am  going  berrying 
in  the  morning.”  I felt  quite  grown-up  to 
know  that  a young  man  wanted  to  go  berrying 
with  me. 

We  were  off  the  next  morning  before  the  sun 
was  up.  I walked  with  my  mothers  and  the 
other  women.  The  men  went  a little  ahead, 
armed,  some  with  guns,  others  with  bows. 
Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing  walked  behind  the  men. 

On  his  back  I saw  a handsome 
otter-skin  quiver,  full  of  arrows.  I 
felt  safer  to  see  those  arrows.  En- 
emies might  be  lurking  anywhere 
in  the  woods,  ready  to  capture  us 
or  take  our  scalps.  We  Indian 
women  dared  not  go  far  into  the 
woods  without  men  to  protect  us. 

At  the  woods  the  men  joined 
us,  and  our  party  broke  up 
into  little  groups,  the  older  men 
helping  their  wives,  and  the  younger  men  their 
sweethearts.  I made  my  way  to  a clump  of 
June  berry  trees  bent  nearly  to  the  ground  with 
fruit.  I did  not  look  to  see  if  Sacred-Red-Eagle- 
Wing  was  following  me.  I thought,  “If  he 
wants  to  help  me,  he  may;  but  I shall  not  ask 
him.”  I spread  a skin  under  the  branches, 
and  I was  looking  for  a stout  stick  when  I saw 
my  boy  friend  breaking  off  the  laden  branches 
and  piling  them  on  the  skin,  ready  to  be  beaten. 

I sat  on  the  ground  and  with  my  stick  beat 
off  the  berries.  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing  fetched 


PICKING  JUNE  BERRIES 


103 


me  fresh  branches,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  I 
had  enough  berries  to  fill  my  sack.  Sacred-Red- 
Eagle-Wing’s  arrows  lay  at  my  feet.  Once, 
when  a near-by  bush  stirred,  my  boy  friend 
leaped  for  his  bow  and  laid  an  arrow  on  the 
string;  but  it  was  the  wind,  I guess. 

All  the  time  that  we  worked  together  Sacred- 
Red-Eagle-Wing  and  I spoke  not  a word.  Older 
couples,  I knew,  talked 
together,  when  they 
thought  of  marrying;  but 
I was  a young  girl  yet  and 
did  not  want  to  be  both- 
ered with  a husband. 

When  my  sack  was 
filled,  I tied  it  shut  and 
slung  it  on  my  back  by 
my  packing  strap.  Sacred- 
Red-Eagle-Wing  laid  some 
sweet  smelling  leaves  un- 
der the  sack  that  the  juices 
from  the  ripe  berries  might 
not  ooze  through  and  stain  my  dress. 

I am  sorry  to  say  that  I am  not  sure  I even 
thanked  Sacred-Red-Eagle- Wing  for  all  he  did 
to  help  me. 

I walked  back  to  the  village  with  the  women 
as  I had  come.  Ahead  of  us  walked  a young 
woman  named  Pink  Blossom,  with  her  chin  in 
the  air  as  if  she  were  angry.  The  older  women, 
coming  after  her,  were  laughing  and  slyly  jest- 
ing with  one  another.  I asked  my  mothers 
what  it  was  all  about. 


104 


WAHEENEE 


It  seems  there  was  an  old  man  in  our  party 
named  Old  Bear,  whose  wife  had  died.  He 
wanted  to  marry  again  and  smiled  at  Pink  Blos- 
som whenever  she  passed  him;  but  she  did  not 
like  Old  Bear,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  away 
whenever  he  came  near. 

When  she  came  to  the  June  berry  woods, 
Pink  Blossom  set  her  sack  under  a tree,  while 
she  picked  berries.  Old  Bear  saw  the  sack. 
He  folded  his  robe  under  his  arm  into  a kind  of 
pocket,  picked  it  full  of  berries,  and  emptied 
them  into  Pink  Blossom’s  sack. 

This  vexed  Pink  Blossom.  She  went  to  her 
sack  and  poured  Old  Bear’s  berries  out  on  the 
ground.  “I  do  not  want  that  old  man  to  smile 
at  me,”  she  told  the  other  women. 

It  was  because  the  women  were  laughing  at 
her  and  Old  Bear,  that  Pink  Blossom  walked 
ahead  with  her  chin  in  the  air.  The  others 
were  having  a good  deal  of  fun  with  one  another 
at  her  expense. 

“I  think  Pink  Blossom  did  wrong  to  waste 
the  berries,”  said  one,  a clan  cousin.  “If  she 
did  not  want  them  herself,  she  should  have 
given  them  back  to  Old  Bear,  for  him  to  eat.” 

“Old  Bear’s  is  a sad  case,”  said  Elk  Woman. 
“But  I knew  a man  in  a worse  case.” 

“Tell  us  of  it,”  said  Red  Blossom. 

“Years  ago,”  said  Elk  Woman,  “I  went 
berrying  with  some  others  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Missouri.  In  the  party  was  a young  man 
named  Weasel  Arm.  He  was  a good  singer,  and 
he  liked  to  sing  so  that  his  sweetheart  could 


PICKING  JUNE  BERRIES 


105 


hear  his  voice.  His  sweetheart  was  also  in  the 
party.  Weasel  Arm  helped  her  fill  her  sack; 
and  when  she  went  back  with  the  other  women 
and  they  were  waiting  for  some  that  had  not 
yet  come  in,  Weasel  Arm  lay  down  on  the  grass 
a little  way  off  and  sang,  beating  time  on  the 
stock  of  his  gun. 

“As  he  lay  there  he  heard  some  one  riding 
toward  him,  but  thought  it  was  one  of  his 
party.  It  was  a Sioux;  and  right  in  the  midst 
of  the  song — poh! — the  Sioux  fired,  wounding 
Weasel  Arm  in  the  hip.  Luckily  the  wound 
was  slight,  and  Weasel  Arm  sprang  for  the 
near-by  woods.  The  Sioux  dared  not  follow 
him,  for  he  saw  that  Weasel  Arm  had  a gun.” 

“I  do  not  think  Weasel  Arm’s  case  as  sad 
as  Old  Bear’s,”  said  one  of  the  women.  “Weasel 
Arm  was  wounded  in  his  body,  but  Old  Bear 
is  wounded  in  his  heart.” 

Elk  Woman  laughed.  “Have  no  fear  for 
Old  Bear,”  she  said.  “He  is  an  old  man  and 
has  had  more  than  one  sweetheart.  His  heart 
will  soon  heal.” 


“But  I am  sorrv  for  t~  " 'w 


106 


WAHEENEE 


should  not  waste  good  berries,  even  if  Old  Bear 
does  look  like  an  old  man.” 

All  laughed  at  this  but  Pink  Blossom. 

“I  knew  a young  woman  who  once  wasted 
good  rose  berries,  just  as  Pink  Blossom  wasted 
the  June  berries,”  said  Old-Owl  Woman. 

“Tell  us  the  story,”  said  one  of  my  mothers. 

“When  I was  a girl,”  said  Old-Owl  Woman, 
“Ear-Eat,  a Crow  Indian,  married  Yellow  Blos- 
som, a Hidatsa  girl.  They  went  to  live  with  the 
Crows,  but  after  a year  they  came  back  to  visit 
our  tribe  at  Five  Villages. 

“It  was  in  the  fall,  when  the  rose  berries  are 
ripe.  Now  the  Crow  Indians  like  to  eat  rose 
berries,  and  gather  them  to  dry  for  winter  as 
we  dry  squashes.  We  Hidatsas  eat  rose  ber- 
ries sometimes,  but  we  never  dry  them  for  win- 
ter. We  think  they  are  food  for  wild  men. 

“Ear-Eat  was  riding  in  the  woods  near  our 
villages,  when  he  found  a thicket  of  rose  bushes 
bending  over  with  their  load  of  ripe  berries. 
‘Ey,’  he  cried,  ‘how  many  berries  are  here!  I 
never  saw  it  thus  in  our  Crow  country.’  And 
he  got  off  his  horse  and  began  to  pick  the  berries. 

“He  had  no  basket  to  put  them  in,  so  he 
drew  off  his  leggings,  tied  the  bottoms  shut 
with  his  moccasin  strings,  and,  when  he  had 
filled  the  leggings  with  berries,  he  slung  them 
over  his  horse’s  back  like  a pair  of  saddle  bags. 

“He  rode  home  happy,  for  he  thought, 
‘My  wife  will  be  glad  to  see  so  many  berries.’ 

“When  Yellow  Blossom  saw  her  husband 
riding  home  without  his  leggings,  and  with  the 

'Ey 


PICKING  JUNE  BERRIES 


107 


tops  of  his  moccasins  loose  and  flapping,  she 
could  hardly  believe  her  eyes.  As  she  stood 
staring,  Ear-Eat  got  off  his  horse  and  handed 
her  his  bulging  leggings.  ‘Here,  wife,’  he  cried, 
‘look  at  these  fine  berries.  Now  we  shall  have 
something  good  to  eat.’ 

“The  village  women,  hearing  what  Ear-Eat 
said,  crowded  close  to  look.  When  they  saw 
that  his  leggings  were  filled  with  rose  berries, 
they  cried  out  with  laughter. 

“Yellow  Blossom  was  angry.  ‘You  are 
crazy,’  she  cried  to  her  husband.  ‘We  Hidatsas 
raise  corn,  beans,  sunflower  seed,  and  good 
squashes  to  eat.  We  are  not  starving,  that  we 
must  eat  rose  berries.’ 

“ ‘The  Crow  Indians  eat  rose  berries,’  said 
Ear-Eat.  ‘My  mother  used  to  dry  them  for 
winter  food.’ 

“His  words  but  vexed  Yellow  Blossom  more. 

“ ‘I  am  a Hidatsa  woman,  not  a Crow,’  she 
cried.  ‘We  Hidatsas  are  not  wild  people.  We 
live  in  earth  lodges  and  eat  foods  from  our  gar- 
dens. When  we  go  berrying  we  put  our  berries 
into  clean  baskets,  not  into  our  leggings.’  And 
she  turned  the  leggings  up  and  poured  the  rose 
berries  out  on  the  ground.” 

We  all  laughed  at  Old-Owl  Woman’s  story. 

“We  had  other  use  for  rose  berries  when  I 
was  a girl,”  said  Red  Blossom.  “If  a young 
man  went  at  evening  to  talk  with  his  sweet- 
heart, he  put  a ripe  rose  berry  in  his  mouth  to 
make  his  breath  sweet.” 


108 


WAHEENEE 


“I  wonder  if  Old  Bear  put  a rose  berry  in 
his  mouth,”  said  Old-Owl  Woman. 

“I  think  he  put  two  rose  berries  in  his 
mouth,”  said  Red  Blossom,  smiling. 

All  laughed  again  but  Pink  Blossom;  she 
walked  on,  saying  nothing. 


TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

THE  CORN  HUSKING 

After  the  June  berry  season  came  choke- 
cherries.  We  did  not  gather  so  big  a store  of 
these,  but  they  were  harder  to  prepare  for  dry- 
ing. I can  yet  see  old  Turtle,  with  her  gnarled, 
wrinkled  fingers,  plying  the  crushing  stones. 
She  dropped  three  or  four  cherries  on  a round 
stone  and  crushed  them  with  a smaller  stone 
held  in  her  palm.  The  pulp  she  squeezed 
through  her  palms  into  lumps,  which  she  dried 
in  the  sun. 

And  then  came  the  corn  harvest,  busiest 
and  happiest  time  of  all  the  year.  It  was  hard 
work  gathering  and  husking  the  corn,  but  what 
fun  we  had!  For  days  we  girls  thought  of 
nothing  but  the  fine  dresses  we  should  wear  at 
the  husking. 

While  the”ears  were  ripening  my  sister  and 
I went  every  morning  to  sit  on  our  watch  stage 


109 


110 


WAHEENEE 


and  sing  to  the  corn.  One  evening  we  brought 
home  with  us  a basketful  of  the  green  ears  and 
were  husking  them  by  the  fire.  My  father 
gathered  up  the  husks  and  took  them  out  of 
the  lodge.  I wondered  why  he  did  so. 

“I  fed  the  husks,  daughter,  to  my  pack 
horses,”  he  said,  when  he  came  back.  “To-mor- 
row I go  hunting  to  get  meat  for  the  husking.” 
He  had  brought  his  hunting  pony  into  the  lodge, 
but  he  had  penned  his  pack  horses  for  the  night 
under  the  corn  stage. 

My  two  mothers,  I knew,  were  planning  a 
big  feast.  “We  have  much  corn  to  husk,”  they 
said,  “and  we  must  have  plenty  of  food,  for  we 
do  not  want  our  huskers  to  go  away  hungry.” 

Small  Ankle  left  us  before  daybreak.  He 
returned  the  fourth  day  after,  about  noon,  with 
two  deer  loaded  on  his  pack  horses.  “One  is 
a black-tail,”  he  told  us  when  he  came  in  the 
lodge,  “a  buck  that  I killed  yesterday  in 
some  bad  lands  by  the  Little  Missouri.  He 
was  hiding  in  a clump  of  trees.  As  I rode  near, 
he  winded  me  and  ran  out  into  the  open.  I 
checked  my  pony,  and  the  buck  stopped  to 
look  around.  I fired,  and  he  fell;  but,  when  I 
got  off  my  horse,  the  buck  rose  and  tried  to  push 
me  with  his  horns.  I killed  him  with  my  knife.” 
A wounded  black-tail  often  tried  to  fight  off 
the  hunters:  a white-tail  hardly  ever  did  so. 

The  next  morning  we  women  rose  early, 
and  with  our  baskets  hastened  to  the  cornfield. 
All  day  we  plucked  the  ripe  ears,  bearing  them 
in  our  baskets  to  the  center  of  the  field,  where 


THE  CORN  HUSKING 


111 


we  laid  them  in  a long  pile.  That  night  my 
father  and  Red  Blossom  slept  on  the  watchers’ 
stage,  to  see  that  no  horse  broke  in  and  trampled 
our  corn  pile.  There  was  not  much  danger  of 
this.  Around  the  field  ran  a kind  of  fence,  of 
willows,  enough  to  keep  out  the  ponies. 

The  rest  of  us  returned  to  the  lodge  to  make 
ready  for  the  feast  the  next  day.  Turtle  fetched 
out  three  great  bundles  of 
dried  buffalo  meat  and  piled 
them  on  the  punch- 
eon bench  with  the 
freshly  killed  deer 
meat.  Our  three  ket- 
tles were  scoured  and 
set  by,  ready  to  be 
taken  to  the  field. 

At  nightfall  Bear’s 
Tail  went  around  the 
village  to  lodges  of 
our  relatives  and 
friends,  and  invited 
the  young  men  to 
come  to  our  husking. 


I was  too  excited  that  night  to  sleep  much. 
Early  in  the  morning  my  sister  and  I rose  and 
went  to  the  river  for  a dip  in  its  cold  waters. 
After  a hasty  breakfast  I put  on  my  best  dress, 
of  deer  skin,  with  hoofs  hanging  like  bangles  at 
the  edge  of  the  skirt  and  three  rows  of  costly 
elk  teeth  across  the  front.  Cold  Medicine  helped 
me  paint  my  face,  and  was  careful  to  rub  a little 
red  ochre  in  the  part  of  my  hair. 


112 


WAHEENEE 


The  sun  was  just  coming  over  the  prairie 
when  we  started  for  the  field.  We  had  loaded 
our  kettles  and  meat  on  two  pack  horses,  and 
old  Turtle  led  the  way.  My  father  and  Red 
Blossom  had  risen  early  and  eaten  breakfast, 
and  now  had  a brisk  fire  going.  We  put  our 
kettles  on,  after  filling  them  with  water.  In 
one  we  put  dried,  in  another  fresh,  meat;  the 
third  kettle  we  filled  with  green  corn,  late 
planted  for  this  purpose.  The  meat  and  corn 
were  for  our  feast. 

The  sun  was  three  hours  high  when  the 
huskers  came.  They  were  about  thirty  in  all, 
young  men,  except  three  or  four  crippled  old 
warriors  who  wanted  to  feast.  These  were  too  old 
to  work  much,  but  my  father  made  them  welcome. 

The  huskers  came  into  the  field  yelling  and 
singing.  We  had,  indeed,  heard  their  yells 
long  before  we  saw  them.  I think  young  men 
all  sing  and  yell,  just  because  they  are  young. 

My  sister  and  I were  already  seated  at  one 
side  of  the  corn  pile,  and  the  other  women 
joined  us.  The  young  men  sat  down  on  the 
opposite  side,  and  the  husking  began. 

I saw  that  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing  sat  just 
opposite  me.  Next  to  him  was  a young  man 
named  Red  Hand,  with  grass  plumes  in  his 
hair.  These  meant  that  he  had  been  in  a war 
party  and  had  been  sent  out  to  spy  on  the 
enemy.  I saw  Red  Hand  looking  at  me,  and 
I was  glad  that  I was  wearing  my  elk  teeth  dress. 
“He  is  a young  man,”  I thought,  “not  a boy, 
like  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing.” 


THE  CORN  HUSKING 


113 


The  huskers  worked  rapidly,  stripping  off 
the  dry  husks  with  their  hands.  The  big  fine 
ears  they  braided  in  strings,  to  save  for  seed. 
Smaller  ears  they  tossed  into  a pile.  Big  as  our 
corn  pile  was,  it  was  husked  in  about  four  hours. 

My  mothers  then  served  the  feast. 

The  huskers  were  hearty  eaters;  for,  like 
all  young  men,  they  had  good 
appetites;  but  we  had  a big 
feast  of  meat,  and  even  they 
could  not  eat  all.  It  was  not 
polite  to  leave  any  of  the  food, 
and  some  had  brought  sharp 
sticks  on  which  they  skewered 
the  meat  they  could  not  eat, 
to  take  home  with  them. 

The  feast  over,  the  huskers 
went  to  another  field,  singing 
and  yelling  as  they  went. 

We  women  had  now  to  busy  ourselves  carry- 
ing in  our  corn. 

We  loaded  our  two  pack  horses  with  strings 
of  braided  ears,  ten  strings  to  a pony.  The 
smaller  ears  we  bore  to  the  village  in  our  bas- 
kets, to  dry  on  our  corn  stage  before  threshing. 

In  midafternoon  there  were  a few  strings  of 
corn  still  left,  and  I was  laying  them  by  for  the 
next  trip  when  I heard  steps.  I looked  up  and 
saw  Red  Hand  coming,  leading  his  pony. 

Red  Hand  did  not  speak,  but  he  laid  my 
strings  of  corn  on  his  pony  and  started  for  the 
village.  “He  wants  to  help  me  take  home  my 

corn,”  I thought.  A young  man  did  thus  for 
8 


114 


W A IIEEN EE 


the  girl  he  admired.  “Red  Hand  is  brave,  and 
he  owns  a pony,”  I said  to  myself;  and  I forgot 
all  about  Sacred-Red-Eagle-Wing. 

My  father  returned  with  the  pack  horses 
just  as  Red  Hand  was  starting  off;  and  I was 
stooping  to  fill  my  basket,  when  suddenly  there 
came  a sound,  poh-poh-poh,  as  of  guns;  then 
yells,  and  a woman  screamed.  Small  Ankle 
sprang  for  his  war  pony,  which  he  had  left  hob- 
bled near  the  husking  pile. 

Our  corn  fields  lay  in  a strip  of  flat  land 
skirted  by  low  foot  hills;  and  now  I saw,  com- 
ing over  the  hills,  a party  of  Sioux,  thirty  or 
more,  mounted,  and  painted  for  war.  At  the 
edge  of  the  hills  they  checked  their  ponies,  and 
those  who  had  guns  began  firing  down  into  our 
gardens.  Many  of  the  Sioux  were  armed  with 
bows  and  arrows. 

On  all  sides  arose  outcries.  My  brave  father 
dashed  by  with  his  ringing  war  whoop,  ui,  ui,  ui  ;l 
and  after  him  Red  Hand,  lashing  his  pony  and 
yelling  like  mad.  Red  Hand  had  thrown  away 
my  strings  of  corn,  but  I was  not  thinking  of 
my  corn  just  then. 

Women  and  children  began  streaming  past 
our  field  to  the  village.  Brave  young  men  rode 
between  them  and  our  enemies,  lest  the  Sioux 
dash  down  and  cut  off  some  straggler.  Two 
lads,  on  swift  ponies,  galloped  ahead  to  rouse  the 
villagers. 

Meanwhile  my  father  and  others  were  fight- 
ing off  the  Sioux  from  the  shelter  of  some  clumps 
of  small  trees  that  dotted  the  flat:  Our  enemies 

lu  i (pronounced  like  oo  ee,  but  quickly  and  sharply) 


THE  CORN  HUSKING 


115 


did  not  fight  standing,  but  galloped  and  pranced 
their  horses  about  on  the  hillside  to  spoil  our  aim. 

Suddenly  a Sioux  warrior,  in  trailing  eagle- 
feather  bonnet,  and  mounted  on  a beautiful 
spotted  pony,  dashed  down  the 
1 ~ 

1 


As  they  drew  near  one  another  the  Sioux 
swerved,  and  an  arrow,  like  a little  snake,  came 
curving  through  the  air.  Red  Hand’s  pony 
stumbled  and  fell,  the  shaft  in  its  throat;  but 
Red  Hand,  leaping  to  the  ground,  raised  his  gun 
and  fired.  I saw  the  Sioux  drop  his  bow  and 
ride  back  clinging  desperately  to  his  pony’s 
mane.  Red  Hand  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  I heard  his  yi-yi-yi-yi-yah,1  the  yell  that  a 
warrior  made  when  he  had  wounded  an  enemy. 

On  the  side  toward  our  village  other  cries 
now  arose,  for  the  warriors  were  coming  to  our 
help.  The  Sioux  fled.  Our  men  pursued  them, 
and  at  nightfall  came  back  with  one  scalp. 

All  that  night  we  danced  the  scalp  dance. 
A big  fire  was  built.  Men  and  women  painted 


xyi  yT  yi  yt  yah' 


116 


WAHEENEE 


their  faces  black  and  sang  glad  songs.  Old  women 
cried  a-la-la-la-la!  Young  men  danced,  yelled 
and  boasted  of  their  deeds.  All  said  that  Red 
Hand  was  a brave  young  man  and 
would  become  a great  warrior. 


The  next  day  I was  coming  from  the  water- 
ing place  with  my  kettle.  Just  ahead  of  me 
walked  Waving  Corn,  a handsome  girl  two  years 
older  than  I.  Red  Hand  passed  by;  shyly  I 
looked  up,  thinking  to  see  him  smile  at  me. 

He  was  smiling  at  Waving  Corn. 

1 a lii  La,  la  lii' 


THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

MARRIAGE 

And  so  I grew  up,  a happy,  contented  Indian 
girl,  obedient  to  my  mothers,  but  loving  them 
dearly.  I learned  to  cook,  dress  skins, 
embroider,  sew  with  awl  and  sinew,  and  cut 
and  make  moccasins,  clothing  and  tent  covers. 
There  was  always  plenty  of  work  to  do,  but  I 
had  time  to  rest,  and  to  go  to  see  my  friends; 
and  I was  not  given  tasks  beyond  my  strength. 
My  father  did  the  heavy  lifting,  if  posts  or 
beams  were  to  be  raised.  “You  are  young, 
daughter,”  he  would  say.  “Take  care  you  do 
not  overstrain!”  He  was  a kind  man,  and 
helped  my  mothers  and  me  whenever  we  had 
hard  work  to  do. 

For  my  industry  in  dressing  skins,  my  clan 
aunt,  Sage,  gave  me  a woman’s  belt.  It  was 
as  broad  as  my  three  fingers,  and  covered  with 


117 


118 


W A BEEN  EE 


blue  beads.  One  end  was  made  long,  to  hang 
down  before  me.  Only  a very  industrious  girl 
was  given  such  a belt.  She  could  not  buy  or 
make  one.  No  relative  could  give  her  the  belt; 
for  a clan  aunt,  remember,  was  not  a blood  rela- 
tive. To  wear  a woman’s  belt  was  an  honor. 
I was  as  proud  of  mine  as  a war  leader  of  his 
first  scalp. 

I won  other  honors  by  my  industry.  For 
embroidering  a robe  for  my  father  with  porcu- 
pine quills  I was  given  a brass  ring,  bought  of 
the  traders;  and  for  embroidering  a tent  cover 
with  gull  quills  dyed  yellow  and  blue  I was  given 
a bracelet.  There  were  few  girls  in  the  village 
who  owned  belt,  ring  and  bracelet. 

In  these  years  of  my  girlhood  my  mothers 
were  watchful  of  all  that  I did.  We  had  big 
dances  in  the  village,  when  men  and  women 
sang,  drums  beat  loud,  and  young  men,  painted 
and  feathered,  danced  and  yelled  to  show  their 
brave  deeds.  I did  not  go  to  these  dances 
often,  and,  when  I did,  my  mothers  went  with 
me.  Ours  was  one  of  the  better  families  of  the 
tribe,  and  my  mothers  were  very  careful  of  me. 

I was  eighteen  years  old  the  Bent-Enemy- 
Killed  winter;  for  we  Hidatsas  reckoned  by  win- 
ters, naming  each  for  something  that  happened 
in  it.  An  old  man  named  Hanging  Stone  then 
lived  in  the  village.  He  had  a stepson  named 
. Magpie,  a handsome  young  man  and  a good 
hunter. 

One  morning  Hanging  Stone  came  into  our 
lodge.  It  was  a little  while  after  our  morning 


MARRIAGE 


119 


meal,  and  I was  putting  away  the  wooden  bowls 
that  we  used  for  dishes.  The  hollow  buffalo 
hoofs  hung  on  the  door  for  bells,  I remember, 
rattled  clitter,  clitter,  clitter,  as  he  raised  and  let 
fall  the  door.  My  father  was  sitting  by  the  fire. 

Hanging  Stone  walked  up  to  my  father,  and 
laid  his  right  hand  on  my  father’s  head.  “I 
want  you  to  believe  what  I say,”  he  cried.  “I 
want  my  boy  to  live  in  your  good  family.  I am 
poor,  you  are  rich;  but  I want  you  to  favor 
us  and  do  as  I ask.” 

He  went  over  to  my  mothers  and  did  like- 
wise, speaking  the  same  words  to  both.  He  then 
strode  out  of  the  lodge. 

Neither  my  father  nor  my  mothers  said  any- 
thing, and  I did  not  know  at  first  what  it  all 
meant.  My  father  sat  for  a while,  looking  at 
the  fire.  At  last  he  spoke,  “My  daughter  is 
too  young  to  marry.  When  she  is  older  I may 
be  willing.” 

Toward  evening  Hanging  Stone  and  his  rel- 
atives brought  four  horses  and  three  flint-lock 
guns  to  our  lodge.  He  tied  the  four  horses 
to  the  drying  stage  outside.  They  had  good 
bridles,  with  chains  hanging  to  the  bits.  On 
the  back  of  each  horse  was  a blanket  and  some 
yards  of  calico,  very  expensive  in  those  days. 

Hanging  Stone  came  into  the  lodge.  “I 
have  brought  you  four  horses  and  three  guns,” 
he  said  to  my  father. 

“I  must  refuse  them,”  answered  Small  Ankle. 
“My  daughter  is  too  young  to  marry.” 


120 


WAHEENEE 


Hanging  Stone  went  away,  but  he  did  not 
take  his  horses  with  him.  My  father  sent  them 
back  by  some  young  men. 

The  evening  of  the  second  day  after,  Hanging 
Stone  came  again  to  our  lodge.  As  before,  he 
brought  the  three  guns  and  gifts  of  cloth,  and 
four  horses;  but  two  of  these  were  hunting 
horses.  A hunting  horse  was  one  fleet  enough 
to  overtake  a buffalo,  a thing  that  few  of  our 
little  Indian  ponies  could  do.  Such  horses  were 
costly  and  hard  to  get.  A family  that  had  good 
hunting  horses  had  always  plenty  of  meat. 

After  Hanging  Stone  left,  my  father  said 
to  his  wives,  “What  do  you  think  about  it?” 

“We  would  rather  not  say  anything,”  they 
answered.  “Do  as  you  think  best.” 

“I  know  this  Magpie,”  said  my  father.  “He 
is  a kind  young  man.  I have  refused  his  gifts 
once,  but  I see  his  heart  is  set  on  having  our 
daughter.  I think  I shall  agree  to  it.” 

Turning  to  me  he  spoke:  “My  daughter,  I 
have  tried  to  raise  you  right.  I have  hunted 
and  worked  hard  to  give  you  food  to  eat.  Now 
I want  you  to  take  my  advice.  Take  this  man 
for  your  husband.  Try  always  to  love  him. 
Do  not  think  in  your  heart,  ‘I  am  a handsome 
young  woman,  but  this  man,  my  husband,  is 
older  and  not  handsome.’  Never  taunt  your 
husband.  Try  not  to  do  anything  that  will 
make  him  angry.” 

I did  not  answer  yes  or  no  to  this;  for  I 
thought,  “If  my  father  wishes  me  to  do  this, 
why  that  is  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do.”  I 


MARRIAGE 


121 


had  been  taught  to  be  obedient  to  my  father. 
I do  not  think  white  children  are  taught  so,  as 
we  Indian  children  were  taught. 

For  nigh  a week  my  father  and  my  two 
mothers  were  busy  getting  ready  the  feast  foods 
for  the  wedding.  On  the  morning  of  the  sixth 
day,  my  father  took 
from  his  bag  a fine 
weasel-skin  cap  and 
an  eagle-feather  war 
bonnet.  The  first  he 
put  on  my  head;  the 
second  he  handed  to 
my  sister,  Cold  Med- 
icine. “Take  these  to 
Hanging  Stone’s 
lodge,”  he  said. 

We  were  now 
ready  to  march.  I 
led,  my  sister  walking 
with  me.  Behind  us 
came  some  of  our 
relatives,  leading 
three  horses;  and, 
after  them,  five  great 
kettles  of  feast  foods,  on  poles  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  women  relatives.  The  kettles  held 
boiled  dried  green  corn  and  ripe  corn  pounded 
to  meal  and  boiled  with  beans;  and  they  were 
steaming  hot. 

There  was  a covered  entrance  to  Hanging 
Stone’s  lodge.  The  light  was  rather  dim  inside, 
and  I did  not  see  a dog  lying  there  until  he 


122 


WAHEENEE 


sprang  up,  barking  wu-wu!  and  dashed  past  me. 
I sprang  back,  startled.  Cold  Medicine  tittered. 
“Do  not  be  foolish,”  called  one  of  our  women 
relatives.  Cold  Medicine  stopped  her  tittering, 
but  I think  we  were  rather  glad  of  the  dog.  My 
sister  and  I had  never  marched  in  a wedding 
before,  and  we  were  both  a little  scared. 

I lifted  the  skin  door — it  was  an  old-fashioned 
one  swinging  on  thongs  from  the  beam  over- 
head— and  entered  the  lodge.  Hanging  Stone 
sat  on  his  couch  against  the  puncheon  fire  screen. 
I went  to  him  and  put  the  weasel-skin  cap  on 
his  head.  The  young  man  who  was  to  be  my 

husband  was  sitting  on 
his  couch,  a frame  of 
poles  covered  with  a 
tent  skin.  Cold  Medi- 
cine and  I went  over 
and  shyly  sat  on  the 
floor  near-by. 

The  kettles  of  feast 
foods  had  been  set 
down  near  the  fire- 
place, and  the  three 
horses  tied  to  the  corn 
stage  without.  Hang- 
ing Stone  had  fetched 
my  father  four  horses. 
We  reckoned  the  weasel  cap  and  the  war  bonnet 
as  worth  each  a horse;  and,  with  these  and  our 
three  horses,  my  father  felt  he  was  going  his  friend 
one  horse  better.  It  was  a point  of  honor  in  an 
Indian  family  for  the  bride’s  father  to  make  a 


Plate  II. — “I  put  the  weasel-skin  cap  on  his  head 


MARRIAGE 


125 


more  valuable  return  gift  than  that  brought  him 
by  the  bridegroom  and  his  friends. 

As  we  two  girls  sat  on  the  floor,  with  ankles 
to  the  right,  as  Indian  women  always  sit,  Mag- 
pie’s mother  filled  a wooden  bowl  with  dried 
buffalo  meat  pounded  fine  and  mixed  with  mar- 
row fat,  and  set  it  for  my  sister  and  me  to  eat. 
We  ate  as  much  as  we  could.  What  was  left, 
my  sister  put  in  a fold  of  her  robe,  and  we  arose 
and  went  home.  It  would  have  been  impolite 
to  leave  behind  any  of  the  food  given  us  to  eat. 

Later  in  the  day  Magpie’s  relatives  and 
friends  came  to  feast  on  the  foods  we  had  taken 
to  Hanging  Stone’s  lodge.  Each  guest  brought 
a gift,  something  useful  to  a new-wed  bride — 
beaded  work,  fawn-skin  work  bag,  girl’s  leggings, 
belt,  blanket,  woman’s  robe,  calico  for  a dress, 
and  the  like.  In  the  evening  two  women  of 
Magpie’s  family  brought  these  gifts  to  my  fath- 
er’s lodge,  packing  them  each  in  a blanket  on  her 
back.  They  piled  the  gifts  on  the  floor  beside 
Red  Blossom,  the  elder  of  my  two  mothers. 

Red  Blossom  spent  the  next  few  days  help- 
ing me  build  and  decorate  the  couch  that  was 
to  mark  off  the  part  of  our  lodge  set  apart  for 
my  husband  and  me.  We  even  made  and 
placed  before  the  couch  a fine,  roomy  lazy-back, 
or  willow  chair. 

All  being  now  ready,  Red  Blossom  said  to 
me:  “Go  and  call  your  husband.  Go  and  sit 
beside  him  and  say,  T want  you  to  come  to  my 
father’s  lodge.’  Do  not  feel  shy.  Go  boldly 
and  have  no  fear.” 


126 


WAHEENEE 


So  with  my  sister  I slowly  walked  to  Hang- 
ing Stone’s  lodge.  There  were  several  besides 
the  family  within,  for  they  were  expecting  me; 
but  no  one  said  anything  as  we  entered. 

Magpie  was  sitting  on  his  couch,  for  this 
in  the  daytime  was  used  as  white  men  use  a 
lounge  or  a big  chair.  My  sister  and  I went 
over  and  sat  beside  him.  Magpie  smiled  and 
said,  “What  have  you  come  for?” 

“I  have  come  to  call  you,”  I answered. 

“ Sukkeets — -good!”  he  said. 

Cold  Medicine  and  I arose  and  returned  to 
my  father’s  lodge.  Magpie  followed  us  a few 
minutes  later;  for  young  men  did  not  walk 
through  the  village  with  their  sweethearts  in 
the  daytime.  We  should  have  thought  that 
foolish. 

And  so  I was  wed. 


FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 
A BUFFALO  HUNT 

My  young  husband  and  I lived  together  but 
a few  years.  He  died  of  lung  sickness;  and, 
after  I had  mourned  a year,  I married  Son-of-a- 
Star,  a Mandan.  My  family  wished  me  to 
marry  again;  for,  while  an  Indian  woman  could 
raise  corn  for  herself  and  family,  she  could  not 
hunt  to  get  meat  and  skins. 

Son-of-a-Star  was  a kind  man,  and  my  father 
liked  him.  “He  is  brave,  daughter,”  Small 
Ankle  said.  “He  wears  two  eagle  feathers,  for 
he  has  twice  struck  an  enemy,  and  he  has 
danced  the  death  dance.  Three  times  he  has 
shot  an  arrow  through  a buffalo.”  It  was  not 
easy  to  shoot  an  arrow  through  a buffalo  and 
few  of  my  tribe  had  done  so. 

Spring  had  come,  and  in  the  moon  of  Break- 
ing Ice  we  returned  to  Like-a-Fishhook  village. 
Our  hunters  had  not  killed  many  deer  the  win- 


127 


128 


WAHEENEE 


ter  before,  ana  our  stores  of  corn  were  getting 
low.  As  ours  was  a large  family,  Son-of-a-Star 
thought  he  would  join  a hunting  party  that  was 
going  up  the  river  for  buffaloes.  “Even  if  we 
do  not  find  much  game,”  he  said,  “we  shall  kill 
enough  for  ourselves.  We  younger  men  should 
not  be  eating  the  corn  and  beans  that  old  men 
and  children  need.” 

Small  Ankle  thought  the  plan  a good  one. 
I was  glad  also,  for  I was  to  be  one  of  the  party. 
Corn  planting  time  would  not  come  for  a month 
yet;  and,  after  the  weeks  in  our  narrow  winter 
quarters,  I longed  to  be  out  again  in  the  fresh  air. 

There  were  ten  in  the  party  besides  Son-of-a- 
Star  and  myself:  Crow-Flies-High,  Bad  Brave, 
High  Backbone,  Long  Bear,  and  Scar,  and  their 
wives.  Scar  was  a Teton  Sioux  who  had  come 
to  visit  us. 

My  tribe  now  owned  many  horses,  and 
fewer  dogs  were  used  than  when  I was  a little 
girl.  A party  of  buffalo  hunters  usually  took 
both  hunting  and  pack  horses;  but  our  village 
herd  was  weak  and  poor  in  flesh  after  the  scant 
winter’s  feeding,  and  we  thought  it  better  to 
take  only  dogs.  There  was  yet  little  pasture, 
and  the  ground  was  wet  and  spongy  from  the 
spring  thaws.  Only  a strong,  well-fed  pony 
could  go  all  day  on  wet  ground. 

I took  three  of  our  family  dogs.  On  the 
travois  of  two  I loaded  robes  for  bedding,  the 
halves  of  an  old  tent  cover,  moccasins  for  myself 
and  husband,  an  ax,  a copper  kettle  and  a 
flesher  for  dressing  hides.  My  third  dog  dragged 


A BUFFALO  HUNT 


129 


a bull  boat,  bound  mouth  down  to  the  travois 
poles.  We  planned  to  return  by  way  of  the 
river,  in  boats. 

We  were  clad  warmly,  for  the  weather  was 
chill.  All  had  robes.  I wore  a dress  of  two 
deer  skins  sewed  edge  to  edge;  the  hind  legs, 
thus  sewed,  made  the  sleeves  for  my  arms. 

I had  made  my  husband  a fine  skin  shirt, 
embroidered  with  beads.  Over  it  he  drew  his 
robe,  fur  side  in.  He  spread  his  feet 
apart,  drew  the  robe  high  enough  to 
cover  his  head,  and 
folded  it,  tail  end  first, 
over  his  right  side;  then 
the  head  end  over  his 
left,  and  belted  the  robe 
in  place.  He  spread  his 
feet  apart  when  belting, 
to  give  the  robe  a loose 
skirt  for  walking  in. 

We  all  wore  winter 
moccasins,  fur  lined,  with 
high  tops.  The  men  carried  guns. 

Buffalo  hunters  no  longer  used  bows  except 
from  horseback. 

We  started  off  gaily,  in  a long  line.  Each 
woman  was  followed  by  her  dogs.  Two  women, 
having  no  dogs,  packed  their  camp  stuff  on 
their  backs. 

We  made  our  first  camp  late  in  the  after- 
noon, at  a place  called  Timber-Faces-across- 
River.  There  was  a spring  here,  of  good  water. 
Crow-Flies-High  and  Bad  Brave  went  hunting, 


130 


WAHEENEE 


while  we  women  pitched  our  tent.  We  cut 
forked  poles  and  stacked  them  with  tops  together 
like  a tepee.  We  covered  this  frame  with  skins, 
laced  together  at  the  edges  with  thongs.  A 
rawhide  lariat  was  drawn  around  the  outside 
of  the  cover;  and  small  logs,  laid  about  the  edges, 
held  the  tent  to  the  ground.  We  could  not  use 
tent  pins,  for  the  ground  was  frozen.  We 
raised  an  old  saddle  skin  on  the  windward  side 
of  the  smoke  hole,  staying  it  with  a forked 
pole,  thrust  through  a hole  in  the  edge.  We 
were  some  time  building,  as  the  tent  had  to  be 
large  enough  for  twelve  persons. 

We  finished  just  at  dusk;  and  we  were 
starting  a fire  inside,  when  the  two  hunters 
came  in.  Each  packed  on  his  back  the  side 
and  ham  of  an  elk  they  had  killed.  Bad  Brave 
had  laid  a pad  of  dry  grass  across  his  shoulders 
that  the  meat  juice  might  not  stain  his  robe. 

It  was  getting  dark,  and,  while  we  women 
gathered  dry  grass  for  our  beds,  the  two  hunt- 
ers roasted  one  of  the  sides  of  meat.  They 
skewered  it  on  a stick  and  swung  it  from  the 
drying  pole.  Standing  on  each  side,  the  two 
men  swung  the  meat  slowly,  forth  and  back, 
over  the  fire. 

We  were  all  hungry  when  we  sat  down  to 
eat.  The  fresh  roasted  ribs  of  the  elk  were 
juicy  and  sweet,  and  with  full  stomachs  we 
felt  sleepy,  for  the  day’s  march  had  been  long. 
We  gladly  spread  our  robes  and  crept  into  our 
beds,  first  covering  a coal  with  ashes  for  the 
morning  fire. 


A BUFFALO  FIUNT 


131 


Next  morning  we  had  struck  our  tent  and 
loaded  our  dogs  before  the  sun  was  well  up. 
We  took  only  the  tent 
cover,  leaving  the  poles. 

Three  of  our  men  went 
ahead  to  hunt.  The  rest 
followed  more  slowly, 
not  to  tire  our  dogs. 

Now  and  then  we 
stopped  to  rest  and 
eat  from  our  lunch 
bags.  These  were  of 
dried  buffalo  heart 
skins.  Every  woman 
in-  the  party  a 
one  of  them  tucked 
under  her  belt.  We  had  been  careful  to  fill  our 
bags  with  cooked  meat,  from  our  breakfast. 

My  husband  walked  at  my  side  if  he  talked 
with  me.  At  other  times  he  went  a little  ahead; 
for,  if  enemies  or  a grizzly  attacked  us,  he 
would  thus  be  in  front,  ready  to  fight,  giving 
me  time  to  escape. 

Our  trail  led  along  the  brow  of  the  bluffs 
overlooking  the  Missouri.  There  was  a path 
here,  fairly  well  marked,  made  by  hunting  par- 
ties, and  perhaps  by  buffaloes. 

Our  second  camp  was  at  a place  called  the 
Slides;  for,  here,  big  blocks  of  earth,  softened 
by  the  spring  rains,  sometimes  slide  down  the 
bank  into  the  river.  We  found  a spring  a lit- 
tle way  in  from  the  river,  with  small  trees  that 
we  could  cut  for  tent  poles. 


132 


WAHEENEE 


Our  tent  was  hardly  pitched  when  Son-of-a- 
Star  and  Scar  came  in  to  say  they  had  killed  a 
stray  buffalo  not  far  away.  They  had  packed 
part  of  the  meat  to  camp  on  their  shoulders, 
and  Son-of-a-Star  had  cut  out  the  buffalo’s 
paunch  and  filled  it  with  fresh 
blood.  While  the  two  hunters 
went  back  for  the  rest  of  the 
meat,  I put  on  my  copper 
kettle  and  made  blood  pud- 
ding. It  was  hot  and  ready  to 
serve  by  the  time  they  came 
back.  I had  stirred  the  pud- 
ding with  a green  choke- 
cherry  stick,  giving  it  a 
pleasant,  cherry  flavor. 

We  were  a jolly  party 
as  we  sat  around  the 
evening  fire.  The  hot  pud- 
ding felt  good  in  our  stomachs,  after  the  long 
march.  My  good  dogs,  Knife-Carrier,  Took-a- 
Scalp,  and  Packs-a-Babe,  I had  fed  with  scraps  of 
meat  from  the  dead  buffalo,  and  they  were  dozing 
outside,  snuggled  against  the  tent  to  keep 
warm.  Okeemeea g Crow-Flies-High’s  wife, 

fetched  in  some  dry  wood,  which  she  put  on 
the  fire.  A yellow  blaze  lit  up  the  tent  and  a 
column  of  thin,  blue  smoke  rose  upward  to  the 
smoke  hole. 


Crow-Flies-High  filled  his  pipe  and  passed  it 
among  the  men.  Hidatsa  women  do  not  smoke. 

In  the  morning,  on  the  way  up,  we  had 
forded  a stream  we  call  Rising  Water  creek. 

1 O kee  mee'  a 


A BUFFALO  HUNT 


133 


My  leggings  and  moccasins  were  still  wet;  and, 
as  I was  wringing  them  out  to  dry  over  the  fire, 
I said  to  High  Backbone’s  wife  Blossom:  “That 
creek  is  dangerous.  As  I was  fording  it  to-day, 
I slipped  in  the  mud  and  nearly  fell  in;  but 
I once  got  a good  dinner  out  of  that  mud.” 

“How  did  you  get  a dinner  out  of  mud?” 
asked  Blossom. 

“I  will  tell  you,”  I answered.  “I  was  a 
young  girl  then.  My  tribe  had  come  up  the 
river  to  hunt  buffaloes  and  we  had  stopped  at 
Rising  Water  Creek  to  make  fires  and  eat  our 
midday  meal.  It  was  summer  and  the  creek 
was  low,  for  there  had  been  little  rain.  Some 
little  girls  went  down  for  water.  They  came 
running  back,  much  frightened.  “We  saw  some- 
thing move  in  the  mud  of  the  creek,”  they 
cried.  “It  is  alive!” 

We  ran  to  the  bank  of  the  creek  and,  sure 
enough,  something  that  looked  as  big  as  a man 
was  struggling  and  floundering  in  a pool.  The 
water  was  roiled  and  thick  with  mud. 

“We  could  not  think  what  it  could  be.  Some 
thought  it  was  an  enemy  trying  to  hide  in  the  mud. 

“A  brave  young  man  named  Skunk  threw  off 
his  leggings,  drew  his  knife,  and  waded  out  to 
the  thing.  Suddenly  he  stooped,  and  in  a 
moment  started  to  land  with  the  thing  in  his 
arms.  It  was  a great  fish,  a sturgeon.  It  had 
a smooth  back,  like  a catfish.  We  cut  up  the 
flesh  and  boiled  it.  It  tasted  sweet,  like  cat- 
fish flesh.  I do  not  remember  if  we  drank  the 
broth,  as  we  do  when  we  boil  catfish.” 


134 


WAHEENEE 


“I  have  seen  those  fish,”  said  Bad  Brave. 
“Sometimes  when  the  Missouri  falls  after  the 
spring  floods,  one  of  them  will  be  left  stranded 

on  the  sand;  but  I 
never  knew  one  to  be 
seen  in  Rising  Water 
creek.  I know  that 
turtles  are  found 
there,  the  big  kind 
that  fight.” 

“I  have  heard  that 
white  men  eat  tur- 
tles,” said  Long 
Bear’s  wife.  “I  do 
not  believe  it.” 

“They  do  eat  turtles,”  said  High  Backbone, 
“and  they  eat  frogs.  A white  man  told  me. 
I asked  him.” 

“Ey!  And  such  unclean  things;  I could 
not  eat  them.”  cried  Bird  Woman. 

“There  are  big  turtles  in  our  Dakota  lakes,” 
said  Scar.  “They  are  so  big  that  they  drag 
under  the  water  buffaloes  that  come  there  to 
drink.  I once  heard  a story  of  a magic  turtle.” 

“Tell  us  the  story,”  said  Son-of-a-Star. 

“A  brave  young  Dakota  led  out  a war  party, 
of  six  men,”  began  Scar.  “They  came  into  the 
Chippewa  country  and  wandered  about,  seek- 
ing to  strike  an  enemy.  They  found  deserted 
camps,  sometimes  with  ashes  in  the  fire  pit  still 
warm;  but  they  found  no  enemies. 


4 BUFFALO  HUNT 


135 


“One  day  they  came  to  a beautiful  lake.  On 
the  shore,  close  to  the  water,  was  a grassy  knoll, 
rising  upward  like  the  back  of'  a great  turtle. 

“The  leader  of  the  party  had  now  begun  to 
lose  heart.  ‘We  have  found  no  enemy,’  he  said. 
‘I  think  the  gods  are  angry  with  us.  We  should 
return  home.  If  we  do  not,  harm  may  come 
to  us.’ 

“‘Let  us  rest  by  this  knoll,’  said  one.  ‘When 
we  have  smoked,  we  will  start  back  home.’ 

“They  had  smoked  but  one  pipe  when  the 
leader  said.  ‘I  think  we  should  go  now.  There 
is  something  strange  about  this  knoll.  Some- 
how, I think  it  is  alive.’ 

“There  was  a young  man  in  the  party,  reck- 
less and  full  of  life,  whom  the  others  called  the 
Mocker.  He  sprang  up  crying,  ‘Let  us  see  if  it  is 
alive.  Come  on,  we  will  dance  on  the  knoll.’ 

“ ‘No,’  said  the  leader,  ‘an  evil  spirit  may  be 
in  the  knoll.  The  hill  may  be  but  the  spirit’s 
body.  It  is  not  wise  to  mock  the  gods.’ 

“ ‘ Hwee1 — come  on!  Who  is  afraid?’  cried 
the  Mocker.  He  ran  to  the  top  of  the  knoll, 
and  three  of  the  party  followed  him  laughing. 
They  leaped  and  danced  and  called  to  the 
others,  ‘What  do  you  fear?’ 

“Suddenly  the  knoll  began  to  shake.  It 
put  out  legs.  It  began  to  move  toward  the 
lake.  It  was  a huge  turtle. 

“ ‘Help,  help!’  cried  the  Mocker.  He  and 
his  friends  tried  to  escape.  They  could  not. 
Some  power  held  their  feet  fast  to  the  turtle’s 
back,  so  that  they  could  not  move. 

1 Hwee 


136 


WAHEENEE 


“The  great  turtle  plunged  in  the  lake.  The 
men  were  never  seen  again.” 

There  was  silence  when  Scar  ended.  Then 
Crow-Flies-High  spoke:  “Those  men  were  fool- 
ish. One  should 
never  make  mock 
of  the  spirits.” 
He  paused,  puff- 
ing at  his  pipe  and 
blowing  great 
clouds  from  his 
nostrils.  “I  know 
a story  of  another 
Dakota  who  came 
to  grief  at  a lake,” 
he  continued,  as 
he  passed  the 
burning  pipe  for  my  husband  to  smoke. 

“What  is  the  story?”  said  Scar,  smiling. 

“We  Hidatsas,”  said  Crow-Flies-High, 

“believe  that  all  babies  born  in  our  tribe  have 
lived  in  another  life.  Some  have  lived  in  hills 
we  call  Babes’  Lodges.  Others  have  lived  as 
birds  or  beasts  or  even  plants. 

“Down  near  the  Dakota  country  is  a lake. 
It  is  magic;  and  in  old  times  young  men  went 
there  to  see  what  they  had  been  in  a former  life. 
If  one  got  up  early  in  the  morning  while  the 
lake  was  smooth,  and  looked  in  the  water,  he 
saw  in  his  shadow  the  shadow  also  of  what  he 
had  been.  Some  found  this  to  be  a bird,  others 
a plant,  as  a flower  or  a squash. 


A BUFFALO  HUNT 


137 


“A  Dakota  Indian  had  married  a Hidatsa 
woman,  and  dwelt  with  our  tribe.  He  was  a 
good  man,  but  he  had  a sharp  tongue.  He 
often  got  angry  and  said  bitter  words  to  his 
wife.  When  his  anger  had  gone,  he  felt  sorry 
for  his  words.  ‘I  do  not  know  why  I have  such 
a sharp  tongue,’  he  would  say. 

“One  day,  when  hunting  with  some  Hidatsas, 
he  came  near  the  magic  lake.  ‘I  am  going  to 
see  what  I was  before  I 
became  a babe,’  he  told 
the  others.  In  the  morning 
he  went  to  the  lake,  leaned 
over  and  looked.  In  his 
shadow  he  saw  what  he  had 
been.  It  was  a thorn  bush. 

“With  heavy  heart,  he 
came  back  to  camp.  ‘Now 
I know  why  I have  a sharp 
tongue,’  he  cried.  ‘It  is 
because  I was  a thorn  bush. 

All  my  life  I shall  speak 
sharp  words,  like  thorns.’  ” 

All  laughed  at  Crow-Flies-High’s  story,  none 
more  than  Scar  himself.  “I  am  sure  I was  never 
a thorn  bush,”  he  said,  “for  I speak  sweet  words 
to  my  wife,  even  when  she  scolds  me.” 

“Hey,  listen  to  the  man!”  cried  his  wife. 

“But  stop  talking,  you  men,”  she  continued, 
as  she  reached  for  a piece  of  bark  to  use 
as  a shovel.  “It  is  time  to  sleep,  for  we  must 
be  up  early  in  the  morning.”  And  she  began  to 
cover  the  fire  with  ashes. 


FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER 

THE  HUNTING  CAMP 

We  were  up  the  next  morning  before  the  sun, 
and,  after  a hasty  breakfast,  the  men  went  out 
to  look  for  buffaloes.  “The  one  we  killed  yes- 
terday may  have  strayed  from  a herd,”  Son-of-a- 
Star  said.  He  was  hopeful  that  they  might 
find  the  herd  near. 

We  women  were  getting  dinner  when  the 
men  returned,  having  seen  no  buffaloes.  I had 
cut  a green  stick  with  prongs,  on  which  I spread 
slices  of  fresh  buffalo  steak,  and  held  them  over 
the  fire  to  broil.  I had  three  juicy  steaks, 
steaming  hot,  lying  on  a little  pile  of  clean  grass, 
when  my  husband  came  in.  “ Sukkeets — good!” 
he  cried;  and  he  had  eaten  all  three  steaks  before 
I had  the  fourth  well  warmed  through. 

After  dinner  we  broke  camp  and  went  on 
about  five  miles  to  Shell  Creek  Lake.  In  the 
afternoon  of  the  following  day  we  reached  Deep 


138 


THE  HUNTING  CAMP 


139 


Creek.  We  pitched  our  tent  on  a bit  of  rising 
ground  from  which  we  scraped  the  wet  snow  with 
a hoe.  The  weather  was  getting  warmer.  Ice 
had  broken  on  the  Missouri  the  day  we  killed 
the  stray  buffalo. 

While  we  women  busied  ourselves  with  things 
in  camp,  the  men  went  to  hunt,  and  five  miles 
farther  on  they  discovered  a herd  of  buffaloes 
crossing  the  Missouri  from  the  south  side.  Our 
hunters,  creeping  close  on  the  down-wind  side, 
shot  five  fat  cows  as  they  landed.  Buffaloes 
are  rather  stupid  animals,  but  have  keen  scent. 
Had  our  hunters  tried  to  come  at  them  from 
the  windward  side,  the  herd  would  have  winded 
them  a half  mile  away.  As  it  was,  no  more 
buffaloes  crossed  after  the  shots  were  fired,  and 
some  that  were  in  the  water  swam  back  to  the 
other  side.  A rifle  shot  at  the  Missouri’s  edge  will 
echo  between  the  bluffs  like  a crash  of  thunder. 

The  hunters  found  an  elm  tree  with  low 
hanging  branches,  and  under  it  they  built  a 
rude  stage.  Meat  and  skins  of  the  slain  buffa- 
loes they  laid  on  the  floor  of  the  stage,  out  of 
reach  of  wolves.  Some  of  the  meat  they  hung 
on  the  branches  of  the  elm. 

Son-of-a-Star  brought  back  two  hams  and  a 
tongue.  I sliced  the  tough  outer  meat  from  the 
hams,  to  feed  to  my  dogs.  The  bones,  with  the 
tender,  inner  meat,  I laid  on  stones,  around  the 
fireplace,  to  roast,  turning  them  now  and  then 
to  keep  the  meat  from  scorching.  The  roasted 
meat  we  stripped  off,  and  cracked  the  hot  bones 
for  the  rich,  yellow  marrow. 


140 


WAHEENEE 


The  next  morning  Crow-Flies-High  called  a 
council,  and  we  decided  to  cross  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  “The  main  herd  is 
there,”  said  Crow-Flies-High. “ We  should  hunt 
the  buffaloes  before  they  move  to  other  pasture.” 
We  thought  he  spoke  wisely,  and  men  and  women 
seized  axes  to  cut  a road  through  the  willows 
for  our  travois. 

These  we  now  loaded.  The  dogs  dragged 
them  to  the  water’s  edge  and  we  made  ready 
to  cross.  There  were  two  other  bull  boats  in 
the  party  besides  my  own. 

My  husband  helped  me  load  my  boat,  and 
we  pushed  off,  our  three  dogs  swimming  after 
us.  We  had  bound  our  travois  to  the  tail  of 
the  boat,  one  upon  the  other.  The  long  runners 
dragged  in  the  water,  but  the  travois  baskets, 
raised  to  the  boat’s  edge,  were  hardly  wetted. 

We  landed,  and  I lent  my  boat  to  Scar  to 
bring  over  his  wife  and  her  camp  stuff.  Our 
whole  party  crossed  and  brought  over  their  goods 
in  two  trips. 

We  packed  our  goods  up  the  bank  and  made 
camp.  While  we  women  were  cutting  poles  for 
our  tent,  we  heard  the  men  disputing.  They 
were  seated  in  a circle  near  our  pile  of  goods. 
High  Backbone  had  lighted  a pipe. 

“I  say  we  should  go  across  the  river  and  get 
the  meat  we  staged  yesterday,”  said  Crow-Flies- 
High.  Others  said,  “No,  there  is  better  hunt- 
ing on  this  side.  Let  us  go  at  once  and  find  the 
herd.”  And  all  took  their  guns  and  hastened 
off  but  High  Backbone,  who  stayed  to  guard 


THE  HUNTING  CAMP 


141 


the  camp.  We  were  afraid  enemies  might  also 
be  following  the  herd. 

But  the  hunters  returned  at  evening  with- 
out having  seen  buffalo  sign,  and  hungry — so 
hungry  that  they  ate  up  half  our  store  of  meat. 
After  supper,  Crow-Flies-High  called  them  to  an- 
other council.  “I  told  you  we  should  get  the  meat 
we  staged,”  he  said.  “The  gods  gave  us  that 
meat.  We  should  not  waste  it.” 


We  recrossed  the  river  the  next  morning  and 
fetched  back  most  of  the  staged  meat  and  skins, 
reaching  camp  again  in  the  early  part  of  the 
afternoon.  Too  busy  to  stop  and  eat,  we  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  building  stages  and  staking 
out  the  green 
hides  to  dry. 


The  next  day  we  found  to  our  joy  that  the 
wind  had  shifted  to  the  west.  Our  stages  were 
now  hung  with  slices  of  drying  meat,  and  we 
had  built  slow  fires  beneath.  An  east  wind 
would  have  carried  the  smoke  toward  the  herd 
and  stampeded  it. 


142 


WAHEENEE 


dfa. 


It  was  evening  and  getting  dusk  when  Son- 
of-a-Star  came  into  the  tent,  saying,  “Buffaloes 
are  on  a bluff  a quarter  of  a mile  up  the  river. 

I can  see  them  moving  against 
the  sky  line.”  We  listened  and 
heard  the  bulls  roaring;  so  we 
knew  a herd  was  coming  in. 

We  were  careful  to  chop  no 
wood  that  evening,  nor  do  any- 
thing to  make  a noise.  We 
smothered  our  fires,  and  we 
fed  our  dogs;  for,  with  gorged 
stomachs,  they  would  be  sleepy 
and  not  bark.  If  a dog  stirred 
in  the  night,  one  of  us  went 
out  and  quieted  him. 

We  made  another  crossing 
the  next  morning  to  fetch  over 
the  last  of  the  meat  we  had 
staged.  We  returned  about 
noon.  The  first  woman  to  climb 
the  bank  under  our  camp  was 
Scar’s  wife,  Blossom.  She 
dropped  her  pack  and  came 
running  back,  her  hands  at  each 
side  of  her  head  with  two 
fingers  crooked,  like  horns,  the  sign  for  buffaloes. 

We  hastened  into  camp  and  saw  the  buffaloes 
a quarter  of  a mile  away,  swarming  over  a bluff. 
There  was  a bit  of  bad-land  formation  below, 
round-topped  buttes  with  grassy  stretches 
between.  In  these  lower  levels  the  sun  had 


THE  HUNTING  CAMP 


143 


started  the  grass,  and  I think  the  buffaloes  were 
coming  down  into  them  to  seek  pasture. 

Our  hunters  had  come  up  from  the  boats, 
guns  in  hand,  and  set  off  at  once,  creeping  up 
the  coulees  from  the  lee  side,  that  the  buffaloes 
might  not  wind  them.  Presently  I saw  a flash 
and  a puff  of  smoke;  then  another,  and  another; 
and  the  reports  came  echoing  down  the  river 
basin,  poh — poh — poh — poh,  poh,  poh!  likethunder, 
away  off.  The  herd  took  to  their  heels.  Buffa- 
loes, when  alarmed,  usually  run  up-wind;  but, 
as  the  wind  had  shifted  again  to  the  east,  this 
would  have  taken  the  herd  into  the  river;  so 
they  swerved  off  and  went  tearing  away  toward 
the  north. 

The  hunters  returned  before  evening.  Son- 
of-a-Star  was  the  first  to  come  in.  “I  shot  two 
fat  cows,”  he  cried.  “I  have  cut  up  the  meat 
and  put  it  in  a pile,  covered  with  the  skins.” 
He  had  brought  back  the  choice  cuts,  however, 
the  tongues,  kidneys  and  hams.  We  ate  the 
kidneys  raw. 

In  the  morning  we  harnessed  our  dogs  and 
went  out  to  the  butchering  place.  As  we 
neared  my  husband’s  meat  pile,  I saw  that  he 
had  driven  a stick  into  the  ground  and  tied  his 
headcloth  to  it,  like  a flag.  This  was  to  keep 
away  the  wolves.  There  were  many  of  them 
in  the  Missouri-river  country  then. 

While  the  flag  fluttered  and  they  winded  the 
human  smell,  wolves  would  not  touch  the  meat 
pile. 


144 


WAHEENEE 


Sometimes  in  the  fall,  when  hunters  were 
cutting  up  a dead  buffalo,  I have  seen  wolves, 
coyotes,  and  foxes,  a half  hundred  maybe, 
stalking  about  or  seated  just  out  of  bow  shot, 
awaiting  the  time  the  hunters  left.  All  then 
rushed  in  to  gorge  on  the  offal.  The  wolves 
often  snarled  and  bit  at  one  another  as  they  ate. 

All  these  animals  were  great  thieves;  but  the 
kit  foxes,  I think,  were  boldest.  I was  once  with 
a hunting  party,  sleeping  at  night  in  a tent, 
when  I awoke,  hearing  some  one  scream.  A 
kit  fox  had  stolen  into  the  tent  and  walked  over 
the  bare  face  of  one  of  the  sleeping  women. 
She  was  terribly  vexed.  “That  bad  fox  stepped 
his  foot  in  my  mouth,”  she  cried  angrily.  In 
the  morning  we  found  the  fox  had  made  off 
with  some  of  our  meat. 

Son-of-a-Star  uncovered  his  meat  pile,  and 
helped  me  load  our  travois,  binding  each  load 
to  its  basket  with  thongs.  By  long  use  I knew 
how  heavy  a load  each  of  my  dogs  was  able  to 
drag.  When  I thought  the  travois  held  enough, 
I lifted  its  poles  and  tried  the  weight  with  my 
hands. 

My  husband  and  I packed  loads  on  our  own 
backs.  Mine,’  I remember,  was  a whole  green 
buffalo  cow  skin,  a side  of  ribs  and  a tongue. 
This  was  a heavy  load  for  a woman,  and  my 
husband  scolded  me  roundly  when  we  came  in  to 
camp.  “That  is  foolish,”  he  said.  “You  will 
hurt  your  back.”  I liked  to  work,  however, 
and  I wanted  to  show  the  older  women  how  much 
I could  carry. 


THE  HUNTING  CAMP 


145 


We  remained  in  the  camp  about  ten  days. 
The  men  would  hunt  until  they  made  a kill. 
Then  we  harnessed  our  dogs,  and  all  went  out 
to  fetch  in  the  meat.  To  do  this  took  us  about 
half  a day.  At  other  times,  when  not  drying 
meat,  we  women  busied 
ourselves  making  bull 
boats,  to  freight  our  meat 
down  the  river. 

I have  said  that  I 
had  brought  one  boat 
up  from  the  village 
on  one  of  my  dogs. 

I now  made  another. 

There  were  some 
mahoheesha 1 willows 
growing  near  the  camp.  I made  the  boat  frame 
of  these,  covering  it  with  the  green  hide  of  a 
buffalo  cow.  Mahoheesha  willows  are  light, 
tough,  and  bend  to  any  shape.  They  make 
good  boat  ribs. 

When  ready  to  move  camp,  I carried  my 
new  boat  down  to  the  river,  turned  over  my 
head  like  a big  hat.  At  the  water’s  edge  I 
drove  a stout  stake  into  the  mud,  and  to  this  I 
fastened  the  floating  boat  with  a short  thong. 

Skins  and  dried  meat  had  been  made  up  into 
small  bales.  I packed  these  to  the  boat  on  my 
back,  using  a two-banded  packing  strap.  As 
the  river  was  not  far  from  our  camp  and  the 
bank  not  very  steep,  I did  not  think  this  task  a 
hard  one. 


1 ma  ho'  hee  sha 


146 


W A II EE  NEE 


When  the  boat  was  filled,  I covered  the  load 
neatly  with  a piece  of  old  tent  skin,  and  to  the 
tail  of  the  boat,  I lashed  my  three  travois.  The 
buffalo  skin  covering  a bull  boat  was  so  laid 
that*  the  tail  was  to  the  rear  of  the  boat.  For 
this  reason  we  often  spoke  of  the  boat’s  head 
and  tail. 

Meanwhile,  Son-of-a-Star  fetched  the  boat 
I had  brought  up  from  the  village,  and  I bound 
it  to  the  head  of  my  newer  boat.  We  were  now 
ready  to  embark.  I waded  out,  climbed  into 
the  empty,  or  passenger,  boat,  and  called  to 
my  dogs.  They  leaped  in  beside  me. 

Son-of-a-Star  took  off  his  moccasins  and 
rolled  up  his  leggings.  He  handed  me  his 
gun,  loosed  the  thong  that  bound  the  boats 
to  the  stake,  pushed  the  boats  into  deeper 
water,  and  climbed  in.  I handed  him  his 
paddle. 

I had  hewn  this  paddle  from  a cottonwood 
log,  only  the  day  before.  My  own,  lighter 
and  better  made,  I had  brought  with  me 
from  the  village.  Each  paddle  had  a large 
hole  cut  in  the  center  of  the  blade.  Without 
this  hole,  a paddle  wobbled  in  the  current. 

On  the  front  of  my  paddle  blade,  Son-of-a- 
Star  had  painted  a part  of  his  war  record,  hoof 
prints  as  of  a pony,  and  moccasin  tracks  such  as 
a man  makes  with  his  right  foot.  Hoof  and 
footprints  had  each  a wound  mark,  as  of  flow- 
ing blood.  Son-of-a-Star  had  drawn  these  marks 
with  his  finger,  dipped  in  warm  buffalo  fat  and 
red  ochre. 


THE  HUNTING  CAMP 


147 


The  marks  were  for  a brave  deed  of  my  hus- 
band. He  once  rode  against  a party  of  Sioux, 
firing  his  gun,  when  a bullet  went  through  his 
right  thigh,  and  killed  his  horse.  The  foot- 
prints with  the  wound  marks  meant  that  Son- 
of-a-Star  had  been  shot  in  his  right  leg. 

On  his  own  paddle  my  husband  had  marked  a 
cross  within  bars.  These  meant,  “I  was  one 
of  four  warriors  to  count  strike  on  an  enemy.” 

It  was  an  Indian  custom  to  mark  a 
warrior’s  honors,  much  as  a soldier  wears 
stripes  for  the  wounds  he  has  had.  I was 
quite  proud  of  the  marks  on  my  paddles. 

I was  a young  woman,  remember,  and  I 
thought,  “Not  every  woman  has  a husband 
as  brave  as  mine.” 

Just  before  I got  into  my  boat  I had 
paused  to  wash  my  sweaty  face  in  the  river, 
and,  with  a little  ochre  and  buffalo  fat,  I 
painted  my  cheeks  a bright  red.  I thought 
this  made  me  look  handsome;  and,  too, 
the  paint  kept  my  face  from  being  tanned 
by  the  sun,  for  I had  a light  skin.  In  those 
days  everybody  painted,  and  came  to  feasts 
with  handsome  faces,  red  or  yellow.  Now  we 
follow  white  men’s  ways,  and  we  go  about  with 
faces  pale,  like  ghosts  from  the  Dead  village. 
I think  that  is  why  some  tribes  call  white  men 
pale-faces ; because  they  do  not  paint  and  are 
pale  like  ghosts. 

Altogether  there  were  eleven  boats  in  our 
fleet,  two  to  each  couple  except  Scar  and  his 
wife,  who  had  but  one.  At  that,  their  one  boat 


148 


WAHEENEE 


was  enough,  for  they  had  small  store  of  meat  or 
skins  to  take  home.  They  were  a young  couple 
and  thought  more  of  having  a good  time  than 
of  doing  any  hard  work. 

We  had  launched  our  boats  in  a tiny  bay, 
and  our  paddles,  dipping  into  the  quiet  backwa- 
ter, sent  the  waves  rippling  against  the  shore. 
It  was  a crisp  spring  morning,  and  the  sun,  rising 
almost  in  our  faces,  threw  a broad  band  of  gold 
over  the  water.  In  the  shadow  of  the  opposite 
bank,  a pelican  was  fishing.  He  paused  to  gaze 
at  us,  his  yellow  beak  laid  against  his  white 
plumage;  then  calmly  went  to  fishing  again. 
Out  in  mid-current,  an  uprooted  tree  swept  by, 
and  our  skin  boats,  as  they  swung  out  of  the 
bay,  passed  a deadhead  that  bobbed  up  and 
down,  up  and  down.  Then  with  a roar,  the  cur- 
rent caught  us  and  bore  us  swiftly  away. 


SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 

When  using  her  bull  boat  to  cross  over  the 
river,  a woman  knelt  in  the  bow  and  dipped  her 
paddle  in  front  of  her;  but,  with  a second  and 
freighted  boat  in  tow,  my  husband  and  I paddled, 
seated  one  at  each  side  of  our  boat.  We  had 
not  much  need  to  use  our  paddles  as  long  as 
we  rode  the  current. 

Crow-Flies-High  led  the  way.  We  had  gone,  I 
think,  an  hour  or  two,  and  Crow-Flies-High’s  boat 
was  rounding  a point,  when  I saw  him  rise  to  his 
knees  and  back  water  with  his  paddle.  My  hus- 
band and  I speeded  up;  and,  as  we  came  near, 
Crow-Flies-High  pointed  to  the  bank  just  below 
the  point.  It  was  thickly  covered  with  buffaloes. 

Scar’s  wife  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  for 
astonishment,  but  made  no  sound.  If  buffa- 
loes have  not  good  sight,  they  have  keen  ears; 
and  she  knew  better  than  to  cry  out. 


149 


150 


WAIIEENEE 


A bit  of  woodland  stretched  along  the  shore 
farther  on.  Crow-Flies-High  signed  for  us  to  fol- 
low, and  we  floated  silently  down  to  the  end 
of  the  woods,  where  the  trees  hid  us  from  the 
herd.  The  men  sprang  out  and  held  the  boats 
while  we  women  landed. 

The  bank  was  high  and  rather  steep,  but 
at  its  foot  was  a narrow  bench  of  sand  a foot  or 
more  above  the  water’s  level.  We  hastily  un- 
loaded our  boats  and  dragged  them  out  upon 
this  sand. 

Along  the  Missouri’s  edge  are  always  to  be 
found  dead-and-dry  willow  sticks,  left  there  by 
the  falling  current.  I gathered  an  armful  of 
these,  and,  having  climbed  the  bank,  laid  them 
together  in  a kind  of  floor.  Son-of-a-Star  now 
helped  me  fetch  up  our  bundles,  and  we  piled 
them  on  this  willow  floor.  He  also  brought  up 
my  two  boats.  These  I turned,  bottom  up,  over 
my  pile  of  bundles,  to  keep  off  frost  and  rain. 

The  men  now  seized  their  guns  and  hastened 
off  after  the  buffaloes.  It  was  about  noon.  I 
think  we  had  spent  less  than  an  hour  unload- 
ing the  boats  and  packing  them  and  our  stuff 
to  the  top  of  the  bank. 

While  our  hunters  were  stalking  the  herd, 
we  women  stayed  in  camp,  keeping  very  quiet, 
and  stilling  the  dogs  if  they  whined  or  barked. 
Before  long  we  heard  the  poh-poh-poh!  of  guns, 
and  knew  the  herd  was  started.  We  now 
arose  and  began  gathering  sticks  for  a fire.  I 
think  the  first  man  to  return  struck  fire  for  us, 
and  we  got  dinner. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


151 


<&>■- 


We  did  not  trouble  to  set  up  our  tent.  “The 
weather  is  not  cold,”  said  Crow-Flies-High’s  wife. 
“We  can  sleep  in  the  open  air.”  I cut  buck- 
brush bushes  and  spread  a robe  over  them  for  my 
bed.  Dry  grass  stuffed  under  one  end  of  the  robe 
did  for  a pillow.  My  cover- 
ing was  a pair  of  buffalo  skins. 

We  were  weary  and  went  to 
bed  early.  The  night  was 
clear;  and,  with  the  fresh 
river  air  blowing  in  my  face, 

I soon  fell  asleep. 

We  were  astir  the  next  " 
morning  at  an  early  hour.  While 
Son-of-a-Star  started  a fire,  I 
went  to  fill  my  copper  kettle  at 
the  river.  My  husband  had 
asked  me  to  boil  him  some 

^ — 

meat,  for  the  broth;  for  in  old  ^ 

times  we  Indians  drank  broth  instead  of  coffee. 


The  river’s  roar,  I thought,  sounded  louder 
than  usual;  and,  when  I reached  the  edge  of  the 
high  bank,  I saw  that  the  current  was  thronged 
with  masses  of  ice.  This  amazed  me,  for  the 
river  had  been  running  free  for  a fortnight. 
The  Missouri  is  never  a silent  stream,  and  now 
to  the  roar  of  its  waters  was  added  the  groaning 
and  crashing  of  the  ice  cakes,  as  they  grated  and 
pounded  one  another  in  the  current. 

When  the  Missouri  is  running  ice,  the  mid- 
current will  be  thronged,  well-nigh  choked,  with 
ice  masses,  but  near  the  banks,  where  are  shal- 
lows, the  water  will  be  free,  since  here  the 


152 


WAHEENEE 


stream  is  not  deep  enough  to  float  the  ice 
chunks.  On  the  side  of  the  river  under  our 
camp  was  a margin  of  ice-free  water  of  this  kind; 
and  I now  saw,  out  near  the  edge  of  the  float- 
ing ice,  two  bull  boats  bound 
together,  with  a woman  in 
the  foremost,  paddling  with 
all  her  might.  She  was  strug- 
gling to  keep  from  being 
caught  in  the  ice  and  crushed. 

I ran  down  the  bank  to 
the  bench  of  sand  below,  just 
as  the  boats  came  sweeping 
by.  The  woman  saw  me  and 
held  out  her  paddle  crying, 
“Daughter,  save  me!”  I seized 
Tlilipf ' the  wet  blade,  and  tugging  hard, 
drew  the  boats  to  shore.  The  wom- 
an was  Amaheetseekuma, 1 or  Lies-on 
Red-Hill,  a woman  older  than  I,  and  my  friend. 

Lies-on-Red-Hill,  though  rather  fat,  scrambled 
quickly  out  of  the  boat  and  began  tumbling  her 
bundles  out  upon  the  sand.  The  other  women 
of  our  party  now  came  down,  and  we  helped  my 
friend  carry  her  bundles  up  to  the  camp. 

As  we  sat  by  the  fire,  wringing  and  drying  her 
moccasins,  Lies-on-Red-Hill  told  us  her  story: 
“My  husband,  Short  Bull,  and  I were  hunting 
buffaloes.  We  dried  much  meat,  which  I loaded 
in  my  two  boats,"  to  freight  down  the  river. 
While  I paddled,  Short  Bull  was  to  go  along  the 
shore  with  our  horses.  ‘We  will  meet  at  Beaver 
Wood,’  he  said,  ‘and  camp.’  But  I did  not  find 

1 A ma  heet'  see  ky  ma 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


153 


him  at  Beaver  Wood.  Then  ice  came.  I was 
afraid  to  camp  alone,  and  tried  to  paddle  down 
stream,  keeping  near  the  shore,  where  was  no  ice. 
More  ice  came,  and  I feared  I should  be  upset 
and  drown.” 

It  was  not  until  afterwards,  when  we  reached 
our  village,  that  we  learned  why  Short  Bull  did 
not  meet  his  wife.  He  got  to 
Beaver  Wood  ahead  of  her. 

Not  finding  her,  and  thinking 
she  had  passed  him,  he  went 
on  to  the  place  where  they 
had  agreed  to  make  their 
second  camping.  When  again 
she  did  not  come,  he  became 
alarmed,  and  returned  up 
the  river  looking  for  her.  In 
the  morning  he  saw  the  river 
was  full  of  ice.  “She  is 
drowned,”  he  thought.  And 
he  went  on  to  Like-a-Fish- 
hook  village. 

Lies-on-Red-HilPs  father 
named  Dried  Squash.  He  was  fond  of  his 
daughter,  and,  when  he  heard  she  was  drowned, 
he  put  her  squash  basket  on  his  back  and  went 
through  the  village  weeping  and  crying  out, 
“Lies-on-Red-Hill,  dear  daughter,  I shall  never 
see  you  again.”  He  wanted  to  leap  into  the 
river  and  die,  but  his  friends  held  him. 

Lies-on-Red-Hill  rested  in  our  camp  two  days. 
The  third  morning  the  river  was  running  free 
again,  and  she  loaded  her  boats  and  paddled  off 


154 


WAHEENEE 


down  stream.  The  rest  of  us  stayed  one  more 
day,  to  finish  drying  and  packing  our  meat. 
Then  we,  too,  loaded  our  boats  and  started  down 
the  river. 

We  floated  with  the  current,  and  the  second 
day  sighted  Stands-Alone  Point,  or  Independence, 
as  white  men  now  call  it.  Here  a party  of  Man- 
dans  were  just  quitting  camp.  They  pushed  their 
boats  into  the  current  and  caught  up  with  us. 
“We  knew  you  were  coming,”  they  said.  “Lies- 
on-Refl-Hill  told  us.  She  passed  us  yesterday.” 

Our  united  party  floated  safely  down  until 
we  were  two  miles  below  what  is  now  Elbowoods. 
Here,  to  our  astonishment,  we  found  that  the 
current  was  hardly  running,  and  the  water  was 
backing  up  and  flooding  the  shores.  We  rounded 
a point  of  land,  and  saw  what  was  the  matter. 
Ice,  brought  down  on  the  current,  had  jammed, 
bridging  the  river  and  partly  damming  it. 

Fearing  to  go  farther,  we  were  bringing  our 
boats  to  land,  when  we  heard  the  sound  of  a gun 
and  voices  calling  to  us.  On  the  opposite  shore 
stood  two  white  men,  waving  handkerchiefs. 

We  paddled  across  and  landed.  The  white 
men,  we  found,  were  traders,  who  had  married 
Indian  women.  They  had  a flat  boat,  loaded 
with  buffalo  skins  and  furs.  With  them  was 
Lies-on-Red-Hill.  One  of  the  traders  we  Indians 
had  named  Spots,  because  he  had  big  freckles  on 
his  face. 

Like-a-Fishhook  village  was  yet  about  fifteen 
miles  away.  While  the  rest  of  our  party  waited, 
one  of  the  men  went  afoot,  to  notify  our  relatives. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


155 


They  came  about  noon,  the  next  day,  with  ponies 
and  saddles  to  help  us  bring  home  our  goods. 
The  saddles  were  pack  saddles,  made  with  horn 
frames. 

It  took  four  ponies  to  pack  the  dried  meat 
and  skins  my  husband  and  I had  brought.  I 
loaded  my  boats  on  the  travois  of  two  of  my 
dogs. 

We  reached  Like-a-Fishhook  village  at  sun- 
set. Lies-on-Red-Hill  came  with  us,  to  the  great 
joy  of  her  father. 


SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 


AN  INDIAN  PAPOOSE 

My  father  was  overjoyed  to  see  me  and  my 
husband  again,  and  he  was  glad  for  the  store  of 
meat  that  we  brought.  We  had  a real  feast  the 
next  day.  I boiled  green  corn,  shelled  from  the 
cob  and  dried  the  summer  before,  and  packed 
away  in  skin  bags.  We  were  fond  of  this  corn, 
and  had  little  of  it  left.  Strikes-Many  Woman 
parched  ripe  sweet  corn,  pounded  it  in  a mortar 
with  roast  buffalo  fats,  and  kneaded  the  meal 
into  little  balls. 

With  these  corn  messes  and  boiled  dried  buf- 
falo meat  we  made  a big  feast  and  called  in  all 
our  relatives.  To  each  woman  guest,  as  she 
went  away  again,  I gave  a bundle  of  dried  buffalo 
meat;  and  I thus  gave  away  one  of  the  four  pony- 
loads of  meat  I had  brought  home.  It  was  an 
Indian  custom  that,  when  a hunter  brought  in 
meat  of  a deer  or  buffalo,  it  belonged  to  his  wife; 


156 


AN  INDIAN  PAPOOSE 


157 


and  we  should  have  thought  her  a bad  woman, 
if  she  did  not  feast  her  relatives  and  give  to  them. 

My  father  sat  with  his  cronies  at  the  right 
of  the  fireplace,  at  our  feast.  We  women  ate 
apart,  for  men  and  women  do  not  sit  together  at 
an  Indian  feast.  I heard  my  father  talking  with 
his  friend,  Lean  Wolf:  “Every  spring,  when  I was 
young,  we  fired  the  prairie  grass  around  the  Five 
Villages.  Green  grass  then  sprang  up;  buffaloes 
came  to  graze  on  it,  and  we  killed  many.” 

“Those  were  good  days,”  said  Lean  Wolf. 
“There  were  many  buffaloes  then.” 

“It  is  so,”  said  my  father.  “It  is  now  seven 
years  since  a herd  was  seen  near  our  village. 
White  men’s  guns  have  driven  them  away.  And 
each  year  we  kill  fewer  deer.” 

“I  have  heard  that  some  Sioux  families 
starved  last  winter,”  said  Lean  Wolf. 

“They  starved,  because  they  are  hunters  and 
raise  no  corn,”  said  my  father.  “We  Hidatsas 
must  plant  more  corn,  or  we  shall  starve;  and  we 
must  learn  to  raise  white  men’s  wheat  and  pota- 
toes.” Small  Ankle  was  a progressive  old  man. 

One  morning,  not  long  after  our  feast,  Red 
Blossom  came  in  from  the  woods  with  news  that 
the  wild  gooseberry  vines  were  in  leaf.  This  was 
a sign  that  corn  planting  time  was  come,  and  we 
women  began  to  make  ready  our  corn  seed  and 
sharpen  our  hoes. 

I had  been  thinking  of  my  father’s  words  to 
Lean  Wolf.  “They  are  wise  words,”  I told  my 
mothers.  “We  should  widen  our  fields,  and  plant 
more  corn.”  While  they  busied  themselves  with 


158 


WAHEENEE 


planting,  I worked  with  my  hoe  around  the  edges 
of  our  two  fields,  breaking  new  ground. 

Having  thus  more  ground  to  work  over,  my 
mothers  planted  for  more  than  a month,  or 
well  into  June.  The  last  week  of  our  planting, 
Red  Blossom  soaked  her  corn  seed  in  tepid 
water.  “It  will  make  the  seed  sprout  earlier,” 
she  said,  “so  that  the  ears  will  ripen  before  frost 
comes.” 

Our  fall  harvest  was  good.  My  two  mothers 
and  I were  more  than  a week  threshing  and  win- 
nowing our  corn;  but  some  families,  less  wise 
than  ours,  had  not  increased  their  planting,  and 
had  none  too  much  grain  to  lay  by  for  winter. 
This  troubled  our  chief  men.  “The  summer’s 
hunt  has  been  poor,”  they  said.  “If  our  win- 
ter’s hunting  is  not  better,  we  shall  be  hungry 
before  harvest  comes  again.” 

They  had  twice  called  a council  to  talk  of 
the  matter,  when  scouts  brought  word  that 
buffaloes  had  been  seen.  “Big  herds  have  come 
down  into  the  Yellowstone  country,”  they  said. 
The  Black  Mouths  thought  we  should  make  our 
winter  camp  there,  in  tepees;  and  they  went 
about  choosing  a winter  chief. 

But  no  one  wanted  to  be  winter  chief. 
Camping  in  the  Yellowstone  country  in  skin 
tents,  was  not  like  our  wintering  in  earth  lodges 
in  the  woods  near  our  village.  The  people 
expected  their  chief’s  prayers  to  keep  enemies 
away  and  bring  them  good  hunting.  If  ill 
luck  came  to  any  in  the  camp,  they  blamed  the 
winter  chief. 


AN  INDIAN  PAPOOSE 


159 


The  Black  Mouths  offered  gifts  to  one  or 
another  of  our  chief  men,  whose  prayers  we  knew 
were  strong;  but  none  would  take  them.  At 
last,  they  gave  half  the  gifts  to  Eijdeeahkata ,» 
and  half  to  Short  Horn.  “You  shall  take  turns 
at  being  chief,”  they  said.  “ Eijdeeahkata  shall 
lead  one  day  and  Short  Horn  the  next.” 

The  two  leaders  chose  Red  Kettle  to  be  their 
crier.  The  evening  before  we  started  he  went 
through  the  village  crying,  “We  move  to-morrow 
at  sunrise.  Get  ready.” 

Our  way  led  up  the  Missouri,  above  the  bluffs; 
and  most  of  the  time  we  were  within  sight  of 
the  river.  Now  and  then,  if  the  current  made  a 
wide  bend,  we  took  a shorter  course  over  the 
prairie.  Eijdeeahkata  and  Short  Horn  went 
ahead,  each  with  a sacred  medicine  bundle 
bound  to  his  saddle  bow.  The  camp  followed  in 
a long  line.  Some  rode  ponies,  but 
most  went  afoot.  We  camped 


We  made  our  eleventh  camp  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Missouri,  a few  miles  below  the 

1 Ey  dee  ah'  ka  ta 


160 


WAHEENEE 


mouth  of  the  Yellowstone.  Here  the  Missouri 
is  not  very  wide,  and  its  sloping  banks  make  a 
good  place  for  crossing.  A low  bank  of  clean, 
hard  sand  lay  along  the  water’s  edge.  We 
pitched  our  tents  about  noon  on  this  sand. 
There  were  about  a hundred  tepees.  They 
stood  in  rows,  like  houses,  for  there  was  not  room 
on  the  sand  to  make  a camping  circle. 

Small  Ankle  pitched  his  tent  near  the  place 
chosen  for  the  crossing.  The  day  was  windy 
and  chill.  With  flint-and-steel  my  father  struck 
a fire,  and  we  soon  had  meat  boiling.  After 
our  dinner  he  drove  his  horses  to  pasture. 

Strikes-Many  Woman  fetched  dry  grass  for 
our  beds,  spreading  it  thickly  on  the  floor  against 
the  tent  wall.  On  the  edges  of  the  beds  next 
the  fireplace  she  laid  small  logs,  to  keep  in  the 
grass  bedding  and  to  catch  any  flying  sparks 
from  the  fire. 

The  wind  died  at  evening.  Twilight  fell, 
and  the  coals  in  the  fireplace  cast  a soft,  red 
glow  on  the  tent  walls.  I sat  near  the  tent 
door.  With  robe  drawn  over  my  shoulders  to 
keep  off  the  chill,  I raised  the  skin  door  and 
looked  out.  The  new  moon,  narrow  and  bent 
like  an  Indian  bow,  shone  white  over  the  river, 
and  the  waves  of  the  swift  mid-current  sparkled 
silvery  in  the  moonlight.  I could  hear  the 
swish  of  eddies,  the  lap-lapping  of  the  waves 
rolling  shoreward.  Over  all  rose  the  roar,  roar, 
roar  of  the  great  river,  sweeping  onward  we 
Indians  knew  not  where. 


Plate  III. — “With  horn  spoon  she  filled' her  mouth  with  water, 


AN  INDIAN  PAPOOSE 


163 


My  dogs  were  sleeping  without,  snugged 
against  the  tent  for  warmth.  At  midnight  one 
of  them  stirred,  pointed  his  nose  at  the  moon  and 
broke  into  a howl.  The  howl  soon  grew  to  a 
chorus,  for  every  dog  in  the  camp  joined  in.  Far 
out  on  the  prairie  rose  the  wailing  yip-yip-yip- 
yip-ya-a-ah!  of  a coyote.  The  dogs  grew  silent 
again,  and  curled  up,  nose-in-tail,  to  sleep. 

And  my  little  son  came  into  the  world. 

The  morning  sky  was  growing  light  when 
Son-of-a-Star  came  into  the  tent.  His  eyes  were 
smiling  as  he  stepped  to  the  fireplace,  for  they 
saw  a pretty  sight.  Red  Blossom  was  giving 
my  baby  a bath. 

She  had  laid  him  on  a piece  of  soft  skin, 
before  the  fire.  With  horn  spoon  she  filled  her 
mouth  with  water,  held  it  in  her  cheeks  until  it 
was  warm,  and  blew  it  over  my  baby’s  body. 
I do  not  think  he  liked  his  bath,  for  he  squalled 
loudly. 

My  husband  laughed.  “It  is  a lusty  cry,”  he 
said.  “I  am  sure  my  son  will  be  a warrior.” 

Having  bathed  my  baby,  Red  Blossom  bound 
him  in  his  wrapping  skins.  She  had  a square 
piece  of  tent  cover,  folded  and  sewed  along  the 
edges  of  one  end  into  a kind  of  sack.  Into  this 
she  slipped  my  baby,  with  his  feet  against  the 
sewed  end.  About  his  little  body  she  packed 
cattail  down. 

On  a piece  of  rawhide,  she  put  some  clean 
sand,  which  she  heated  by  rolling  over  it  a red- 
hot  stone.  She  packed  this  sand  under  my 

yip  yip  yip  yip  ya.'  ii  ah 


164 


WAHEENEE 


baby’s  feet;  and,  lest  it  prove  too  hot,  she 
slipped  a piece  of  soft  buckskin  under  them. 

Over  all  she  bound  a wildcat  skin,  drawing 
the  upper  edge  over  the  baby’s  head,  like  a 
hood. 

The  hot  sand  was  to  keep  my  baby  warm. 
This  and  the  cattail  down  we  placed  in  a baby’s 
wrappings  only  in  winter,  when  on  a journey. 


EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER 
THE  VOYAGE  HOME 

Meanwhile  Small  Ankle  and  other  members 
of  the  family  were  making  ready  to  cross.  “We 
must  hasten,”  my  father  said.  “Ice  chunks  are 
running  on  the  current  this  morning.  This 
shows  that  up  in  the  mountains  the  river  is 
freezing  over  and  cold  weather  is  setting  in.” 

My  mothers  began  packing  soon  after  break- 
fast and  Son-of-a-Star  came  in  to  say  that  he 
would  take  me  across  in  our  bull  boat;  for  we 
had  brought  one  with  us  from  the  village. 
Old  Turtle  began  unpinning  the  tent  cover  while 
I was  still  inside.  She  made  the  tent  poles  into 
a bundle  and  bound  them  at  the  tail  of  the  boat. 
I stepped  in  with  my  baby  in  my  arms  and  my 
husband  paddled  the  boat  across. 

Son-of-a-Star  helped  me  up  the  bank  on  the 
other  side  and  gave  me  a place  to  sit  where  I 
could  watch  the  crossing.  I folded  a robe  to 


165 


166 


WAHEENEE 


sit  upon,  and,  with  another  robe  drawn  snugly 
over  my  shoulders  and  my  baby  in  my  arms, 
I felt  comfortable  and  warm. 

My  husband  even  made  a small Jire  in  a hol- 
low place  in  the  ground  near-by.  One  of  my 
women  friends  boiled  some  meat  and  gave  me 
the  hot  broth  to  drink;  for  I was  weary  with  the 
work  of  crossing  and  caring  for  my  babe. 

There  were  not  enough  boats  in  the  camp  for 
all  the  people.  Most  of  the  old  people  and  lit- 
tle children  were  brought  over  in  boats,  and 
some  of  the  camp  goods;  but  many  families 
floated  their  stuff  over  in  tent  covers,,  and,  cold 
as  was  the  water,  many  of  the  men  swam. 

I had  left  my  two  mothers  and  old  Turtle 
loading  their  tent  cover.  Turtle  had  made  a 
big  noose  in  the  end  of  a lariat  and  laid  it  on  the 
sand.  Over  this  she  spread  the  skin  cover,  a 
large  one.  She  bent  a green  willow  into  a hoop, 
laid  it  on  the  tent  cover,  and  within  the  hoop 
piled  most  of  our  camp  goods.  She  now  gath- 
ered the  edges  of  the  cover  together  over  the 
pile,  drew  tight  the  noose,  and  tied  it  firm. 
This  tent-cover  bundle  my  mothers  and  old 
Turtle  pushed  out  into  the  water  as  a kind  of 
raft.  The  willow  hoop  gave  the  raft  a flat  bot- 
tom so  that  it  did  not  turn  over  in  the  water. 

The  lariat  that  bound  the  mouth  of  the  raft 
was  fastened  to  the  tail  of  a pony  we  had  named 
Shaggy,  and  the  end  was  carried  into  and  about 
the  pony’s  mouth  like  a halter.  Shaggy  was 
driven  into  the  stream  and  swam  across,  towing 
the  raft.  The  lariat  was  fastened  to  his  tail  so 


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167 


that,  if  the  raft  was  swept  down  stream  by  the 
current,  it  would  not  drag  the  pony’s  head,  and 
turn  him  from  his 
course. 

As  I have  said, 
many  families  floated 
their  goods  over  in 
these  tent-cover  rafts; 
and  not  a few  wom- 
en, in  haste  to  cross, 
swam  clinging  to  their 
rafts.  One  woman  put 
her  little  four-year-old 
son  on  the  top  of 
her  raft,  while  she 
swam  behind,  pushing  and  guiding  it.  Another 
old  woman,  named  Owl  Ear,  mounted  her  raft 
and  rode  astraddle.  Her  pony  landed  in  a 
place  where  the  shore  was  soft  with  oozy  mud, 
so  that  he  could  not  climb  out.  Owl  Ear  had 
to  wade  in  the  mud  up  to  her  middle  to  get  her 
raft  ashore;  and  when  she  was  climbing  out  she 
slipped  and  sat  down  backwards  again  in  the  ooze. 
She  came  up  sputtering  mud  from  her  mouth  and 
much  vexed  with  herself.  “I  think  there  must 
be  bad  spirits  in  that  mud,  and  they  are  trying  to 
pull  me  back,”  she  called  to  me,  as  she  came 
waddling  up  the  steep  bank. 

Before  evening  my  mothers  had  brought  all 
their  camp  goods  across.  They  raised  the  poles 
of  our  tent  and  drew  on  the  cover.  It  was  wet, 
but  soon  dried  in  the  wind.  We  built  a fire 
inside.  My  baby  had  wakened  up  and  was  cry- 


168 


WAHEENEE 


ing.  I loosened  his  wrapping  and  warmed  him 
by  the  tent  fire,  and  he  soon  fell  asleep.  Red 
Blossom  dug  a hole,  slipped  into  it  a kind  of 
sack  of  raw  hide,  for  a mortar.  We  had  brought 
a pestle  with  us  from  the  village,  and  with  this 
we  pounded  parched  corn  to  a meal  to  boil  with 
beans.  We  ate  a late  supper  and  went  to  bed. 

We  camped  on  the  bank  three  days,  until  all 
had  crossed.  Our  chiefs  would  not  remain  longer, 
for  they  wanted  to  get  into  winter  camp  before 
snow  fell;  and,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day, 
we  struck  tents  and  made  ready  to  march. 

There  was  a mule  in  our  family  herd,  a slow- 
going,  gentle  beast,  that  I had  bought  of  a Sioux 

for  a worthless  pony  and 
some  strings  of  corn.  Son-of- 
a-Star  harnessed  this  mule 
to  a travois,  and  my  baby 
and  I rode.  Had  our  march 
been  in  olden  days,  I should 
have  had  to  go  afoot,  carry- 
ing my  baby  on  my  back. 

My  husband  had  spread 
a heavy  bull-skin  robe  over 
the  travois  basket  and  set 
me  on  it,  with  another  skin 
folded  under  me  for  a cushion. 
Through  holes  in  the  edge  of 
the  bull  skin  Son-of-a-Star 
passed  a lariat;  and  when  I was  seated,  with 
my  baby  in  my  arms  and  my  robe  belted 
snugly  about  us,  my  husband  drew  the  lariat, 
drawing  the  bull  skin  about  my  knees  and  ankles. 


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169 


The  day  was  windy  and  cold,  and  the  bull  skin 
kept  the  chill  air  from  me  and  my  babe. 

Our  leaders  had  chosen  for  our  winter  camp 
a place  called  Round  Bank,  on  a small  stream 
named  Bark  Creek.  There  were  no  trees  here 
for  building  earth  lodges,  so  we  camped  in  our 
tepees,  pitching  them  in  a hollow,  to  shelter 
them  from  the  wind.  The  ground  was  frozen 
so  that  we  could  not  peg  our  tents  to  the  ground, 
but  laid  stones  around  the  edges  of  the  tent 
covers.  Such  was  our  older-fashioned  way.  We 
did  not  use  wooden  tent  pegs  much  until  after 
we  got  iron  axes. 

My  mothers  fetched  dry  grass  into  our  tent 
for  our  beds,  and  made  a fire  under  the  smoke 
hole.  A tepee  was  kept  warm  with  a rather 
small  fire,  if  it  was  well  sheltered  from  the  wind. 

Ours  was  a big  tent,  for  we  had  a big  family. 
With  my  two  half  brothers,  Bear’s  Tail  and  Wolf 
Chief,  and  their  wives;  and  Red  Kettle,  Full 
House,  and  Flies  Low,  younger  sons  of  Red  Blos- 
som and  Strikes-Many  Woman,  we  numbered 
fourteen  in  all.  This  was  a large  number  for 
one  tent.  Ten  were  as  many  as  a tepee  usually 
sheltered.  Every  member  of  the  family  had  his 
own  bed,  where  he  slept  at  night  and  sat  in  the 
daylight  hours. 

* My  little  son  was  ten  days  old  the  second 
day  we  were  in  winter  camp;  and,  though  we 
were  hardly  well  settled,  I found  time  to  make 
ready  his  naming  feast.  Having  filled  a wooden 
bowl  with  venison  and  boiled  dried  green  corn 


170 


WAHEENEE 


—foods  I knew  well  were  to  his  liking — -I  set  it 
before  Small  Ankle. 

“I  want  you  to  name  your  grandson,”  I said 
to  him. 

Small  Ankle  ate,  thinking  the  while  what 
name  he  should  give  my  son.  Then  he  arose 
and  took  my  baby  tenderly  in 
his  arms,  saying,  “I  name  him 
Tsakahka  Sukkee,1  Good  Bird.” 
Small  Ankle’s  gods  were  birds, 
and  the  name  was  a kind  of 
prayer  that  they  remember  and 
help  my  little  soh. 

Winter  passed  without  mis- 
hap to  us.  We  had  found  no 
buffaloes  on  the  Yellowstone; 
but  our  hunters  thrice  discov- 
ered small  herds  near  our  camp 
and  brought  in  meat;  and  a 
good  many  deer  were  killed. 

Rather  early  in  the  spring, 
the  women  of  the  Goose  Society 
danced  and  hung  up  meat  for  the  goose  spirits, 
praying  them  for  good  weather  for  corn  planting. 
Then  we  all  broke  camp. 

Most  of  the  tribe  returned  to  the  Yellowstone 
for  the  spring  hunt,  <but  my  father  wanted  to  go 
up  the  Missouri.  “We  have  not  found  the  herds 
our  scouts  saw  in  the  fall,”  he  said.  “I  am  sure 
they  are  farther  up  the  river.”  One  Buffalo  and 
his  family  joined  us  and  we  went  up  the  river 
and  made  camp.  A small  herd  was  sighted  and 
ten  buffaloes  were  killed. 

1 Tsa  kah'  ka  Suk'  kee 


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We  were  building  stages  to  dry  the  meat 
when  four  more  tents  caught  up  with  us,  those 
of  Strikes  Backbone,  Old  Bear,  Long  Wing,  and 
Spotted  Horn,  and  their  families.  To  each  tent 
owner  my  father  gave  a whole  green  buffalo  hide 
and  a side  of  meat.  The  hides  were  for  making 
bull  boats,  for  we  were  planning  to  return  home 
by  water. 

Ice  broke  on  the  Missouri  and  flocks  of  wild 
ducks  began  coming  north.  My  mothers  were 
eager  to  be  home  in  time  for  the  spring  planting. 
I made  four  new  boats,  giving  one  of  them  to 
my  father,  and  we  made  ready  to  go. 

Son-of-a-Star  partly  loaded  one  of  my  boats 
with  dried  meat,  and  put  in  his  gun  and  ax.  A 
second  boat,  also  partly  loaded,  he  lashed  to  the 
first;  and  a third,  loaded  to  the  gunwhale  with 
meat  and  hides,  he  bound  to  the  tail  of  the 
second.  In  this  second  boat  sat  my  half  brother, 
Flies  Low,  a seventeen-year-old  lad,  with  my 
baby  in  his  arms.  My  husband  and  I sat  in  the 
first  boat  and  paddled. 

There  were  eleven  boats  in  the  six  families 
of  our  party.  One  or  two  families,  having  no 
meat  to  freight,  rode  in  single  boats.  My  father 
and  two  of  the  men  did  not  come  in  the  boats, 
but  rode  along  the  bank,  driving  our  horses. 
They  kept  back  near  the  foot  hills,  but  in  sight 
of  the  river. 

We  were  in  no  haste,  and  we  made  a jolly 
party  as  we  floated  down  the  broad  current.  At 
night  we  paddled  to  the  shore.  The  men  joined  us 
with  the  horses,  and  we  camped  under  the  stars. 


172 


WAHEENEE 


The  Missouri  is  a swift  stream,  and  at  places 
we  found  the  waves  were  quite  choppy.  Espe- 
cially if  a bend  in  the  river  carried  the  current 
against  the  wind,  the  waves  rolled  and  foamed, 
rocking  our  boats  and  threatening  to  swamp  us. 
At  such  times  we  drew  together,  catching  hold 
of  one  another’s  boats.  Thus  bunched,  our 
fleet  rode  the  choppy  current  more  safely  than  a 
single  boat  could  have  done. 

The  weather  had  set  in  rather  warm  when 
we  left  our  winter  camp  and  the  grass  had  already 
begun  to  show  green  on  the  prairie.  But,  as 
we  neared  the  mouth  of  the  Little  Missouri,  a 
furious  storm  of  snow  and  wind  arose.  The  storm 
blew  up  suddenly,  and,  as  we  rounded  a bend  in 
the  river,  we  rode  into  the  very  teeth  of  the  wind. 

Son-of-a-Star  shouted  to  me  to  turn  in  to 
the  shore,  though  I could  hardly  hear  his  voice 
above  the  wind.  . We  plied  our  paddles  with 
all  our  might.  Suddenly  my  husband  stopped 
paddling  and  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
nigh  upsetting  it.  “Eena,  eena I cried,  scared 
nearly  out  of  my  wits,  and  I grasped  at  the  boat’s 
edge  to  keep  from  being  tumbled  in  upon  him. 
Then  I saw  what  was  the  matter.  My  husband 
was  lifting  my  little  son  out  of  the  water. 

I have  said  that  Flies  Low  sat  in  our  second 
boat,  with  my  little  son  in  his  arms.  The  baby 
had  grown  restless,  and  Flies  Low  had  loosened 
the  babe’s  wrappings  to  give  freedom  of  his 
limbs.  A sudden  billow  rocked  the  boat,  throw- 
ing Flies  Low  against  the  side  and  tumbling  my 
little  son  out  of  his  arms  into  the  water. 

1 ee  na' 


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His  loosened  wrappings,  by  some  good  luck, 
made  my  baby  bouyant,  so  that  he  floated.  He 
was  crying  lustily  when  my  husband  drew  him 
out;  but  he  was  not  strangling,  and  under  his 
wraps  he  was  not  even  wet. 

“I  could  not  help  it,”  said  Flies  Low  after- 
wards. ‘‘The  boat  seemed  to  turn  over,  and 
the  baby  fell  out  of  my  arms.”  We  knew  this 
was  true  and  said  nothing  more  of  it. 

Our  party  reached  shore  without  further  mis- 
hap. We  hastily  unpacked  two  tents;  and, 
while  some  busied  themselves  pitching  them, 
others  gathered  wood  and  made  fires. 

That  night  the  snow  turned  to  a cold  rain, 
which  the  next  day  turned  again  into  a heavy 
snow.  The  summer  birds  had  come  north,  and 
after  the  storm  was  over  we  found  many  of  them 
frozen  to  death.  It  snowed  for  four  days. 

Small  Ankle  and  his  brother,  Charging 
Enemy,  were  driving  their  horses  along  the  bank 
when  the  storm  overtook  them.  They  did  not 
stop  to  camp  with  us,  but  pushed  on  through 


174 


WAHEENEE 


the  storm  to  Like-a-Fishhook  village.  They 
reached  the  village  safely  and  drove  their  horses 
down  into  the  thick  timber  out  of  the  cold  wind. 
There  was  a pond  there,  and  the  horses  found 
it  warmer  to  wade  out  into  the  water  than  to 
stand  on  the  bank  in  the  cold  rain.  But  after 
a while,  grown  weary  with  standing,  they  came 
out;  and,  as  the  wind  was  blowing  a gale,  the 
horses  were  chilled  and  three  of  them  died. 
Many  others  of  our  village  herd  died  in  the  same 
way. 

Our  own  party,  as  soon  as  the  storm  was 
over,  re-embarked  and  floated  safely  down  to 
Like-a-Fishhook  village. 


AFTER  FIFTY  YEARS 

I am  an  old  woman  now.  The  buffaloes  and 
black-tail  deer  are  gone,  and  our  Indian  ways 
are  almost  gone.  Sometimes  I find  it  hard  to 
believe  that  I ever  lived  them. 

My  little  son  grew  up  in  the  white  man’s 
school.  He  can  read  books,  and  he  owns  cattle 
and  has  a farm.  He  is  a leader  among  our 
Hidatsa  people,  helping  teach  them  to  follow 
the  white  man’s  road. 

He  is  kind  to  me.  We  no  longer  live  in  an 
earth  lodge,  but  in  a house  with  chimneys;  and 
my  son’s  wife  cooks  by  a stove. 

But  for  me,  I cannot  forget  our  old  ways. 

Often  in  summer  I rise  at  daybreak  and  steal 
out  to  the  cornfields;  and  as  I hoe  the  corn  I 
sing  to  it,  as  we  did  when  I was  young.  No  one 
cares  for  our  corn  songs  now. 


175 


176 


WAIIEENEE 


Sometimes  at  evening  I sit,  looking  out  on 
the  big  Missouri.  The  sun  sets,  and  dusk  steals 
over  the  water.  In  the  shadows  I seem  again 
to  see  our  Indian  village,  with  smoke  curling 
upward  from  the  earth  lodges;  and  in  the  river’s 
roar  I hear  the  yells  of  the  warriors,  the  laughter 
of  little  children  as  of  old.  It  is  but  an  old 
woman’s  dream.  Again  I see  but  shadows  and 
hear  only  the  roar  of  the  river;  and  tears  come 
into  my  eyes.  Our  Indian  life,  I know,  is  gone 
forever. 


GLOSSARY  OF  INDIAN  WORDS 


A ha  hey' 

A ha  huts' 

A kee'  ka  hee 
A la  la  la  la' 


English  equivalents  are  in  italics 

An  exclamation;  Ho  there! 

They  come  against  us. 

Took-from- Him;  name  of  a dog. 

Cry  of  triumph  by  women;  made  by  curling 
the  tip  of  the  tongue  backward  and  vibrating 
it  against  the  roof  of  the  mouth. 

A ma  heet'  see  ku  ma  Lies-on- Red-  Hill;  name  of  a woman. 

Ee'  ku  pa,  Chum. 

Ee  na'  An  exclamation. 

Eet  see  pa  dah'  pa  k eeFoot  moving;  name  of  a game. 


Eet  su'  ta 
Ey 

Ey  dee  ah'  ka  ta 
Hau  (how) 

Hey  da  ey' 

Hwee 

Ma  ho'  hee  sha 
Ma  kut'  sa  tee 
Ma  pee' 

Ma  puk'  sa  5 ki  he 
Meejda'  hee  ka 
Mee  dee  pah'  dee 
Nah 

Na  ka  pah' 

O kee  mee'  a 
Shee'  pee  sha 
Suk'  keets  (or  Sukkee) 
Tsa  kah'  ka  Silk'  kee 

Tsist'  ska 
U'  I 

Wa  hee'  nee 

We'a 
Wu  U U 

YI  yi  yi  yl  yah' 

We'  ah  tee 


Name  of  the  large  tendon  of  a buffalo's  neck. 
An  exclamation. 

Name  of  an  Indian. 

The  Indian  salutation. 

An  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

Hasten;  an  exclamation. 

A species  of  willow. 

Clan  cousin. 

Meal  made  by  pounding. 

Snake  Head-Ornament ; a man’s  name. 

Gardeners'  songs. 

Rising  water;  name  of  a Hidatsa  clan,  or  band. 
Go,  come. 

Mush. 

Head-Ornament  Woman,  a woman’s  name. 
Black. 

Good. 

Name  of  Waheenee’s  son;  from  tsakahka,  bird, 
and  sukkee,  good. 

Prairie  chicken. 

The  Hidatsa  war  whoop. 

Cowbird,  or  Buffalo-bird;  name  of  the  Indian 
woman  whose  story  is  told  in  this  book. 
Woman. 

Imitation  of  a dog’s  bark. 

A war  cry  of  triumph,  made  with  hand  vibrated 
over  the  mouth  or  against  the  throat. 

A woman’s  name. 


177 


EXPLANATORY  NOTES 

Page  9,  l.  24:  “We  had  corn  a-plenty”  The  Hidatsas  and  Mandans 
were  the  best  agriculturists  of  the  north-plains  Indians.  Varieties 
of  corn  developed  by  them  mature  in  the  semi-arid  climate  of  west- 
ern North  Dakota  where  our  better  known  eastern  strains  will  not 
ripen.  The  varieties  include  flint,  flour,  and  a kind  of  sweet  corn 
called  maikadishake,1  or  gummy,  which  the  Indians  use  for  parch- 
ing. Hidatsa  seed  planted  at  the  United  States  Agricultural  Experi- 
ment Station  at  Bozeman,  Montana,  has  made  surprising  yields. 

Page  10,  l.  29:  “the  ghost  land.”  A Hidatsa’  Indian  believed  he 
had  four  ghosts.  At  death,  one  ghost  went  to  the  Ghost  village,  to 
live  in  an  earth  lodge  and  hunt  buffaloes  as  on  earth;  a second  remained 
at  the  grave  until  after  a time  it  joined  the  first  in  the  Ghost  village 
where  they  became  one  again.  What  became  of  the  other  two  ghosts 
does  not  seem  to  be  known. 

Page  11,  l.  20:  “The  march  was  led  by  the  older  chiefs.”  A Hidatsa 
chief  was  a man  who  by  his  war  deeds,  hospitality,  and  wisdom,  came 
to  be  recognized  as  one  of  the  influential  men  of  the  tribe.  He  was 
not  necessarily  an  officer.  When  translating  into  English,  Hidatsas 
usually  call  the  officer  elected  for  any  executive  duty  a leader,  as  war- 
party  leader,  winter-camp  leader,  leader  of  the  buffalo  hunt.  It 
should  be  remembered  that  the  activities  of  an  Indian  tribe  are  de- 
cided in  councils;  and  in  these  councils  the  eloquence  and  wisdom  of 
the  chiefs  had  greatest  weight.  The  Hidatsa  w'ord  for  chief,  literally 
translated,  is  excellent  man,  superior  man. 

Page  13,  l.  8:  “At  this  hour  fires  burned  before  most  of  the  tepees.” 
In  fall  or  winter  the  fire  was  within  the  tepee,  under  the  smoke  hole. 

Page  15,  1. 13:  “for  a woman  to begin  building  her  earth 

lodge.”  While  the  work  falling  to  an  Indian  woman  was  far  from 
light,  she  did  not  look  upon  herself  as  overburdened.  Women  were 
more  kindly  treated  by  Hidatsas  and  Mandans  than  by  some  tribes. 

Page  17,  l.  28:  “dried  prairie  turnips.”  The  prairie  turnip,  psoralea 
esculenta,  is  a starchy,  bulbous  root,  growing  rather  plentifully  on  the 
plains.  Its  food  value  is  high.  Attempts  have  been  made  unsuccess- 
fully to  cultivate  it. 

Page  17,1.30:  “June  berries.”  The  June  berry,  amelanchier 
alnifolia,  is  a small,  hardwood  tree,  bearing  sweet,  dark-red  berries. 
Its  branches  were  much  used  for  making  arrow  shafts. 

Page  21, 1. 14:  “young  men  fasted  and  cut  their  flesh.”  Such  self- 
inflicted  tortures  were  not,  as  is  often  believed,  tor  the  purpose  of 
proving  the  warrior’s  fortitude,  but  were  made  as  a kind  of  sacrifice 
to  the  gods  that  these  might  pity  the  devotee  and  answer  his  prayers. 
See  Bible,  I Kings,  XVIII;  28. 

Page  24,  l.  30:  “It  was  a long  pipe  with  black  stone  bowl.”  The 
stone  bowl  was  carved  from  a hard  kind  of  grey  clay,  anointed  with 
grease  and  baked  in  a fire  to  turn  it  black.  It  took  a high  polish, 
'ma'  l ka  dl  sha  ke 

178 


EXPLANATORY  NOTES 


179 


Page  35,  111 : “Telling  tales. ...in.. ..autumn  and  winter.”  Tribal 
myths,  told  of  the  gods,  were  often  forbidden  in  summer  when  nature 
was  alive.  In  winter  nature  was  asleep  or  dead.  One  could  talk  ot 
sleeping  spirits  without  fear  of  offending  them. 

Page  36,  1.5:  “Making  ready  her  seed.”  The  Hidatsas  used  the 
greatest  care  in  selecting  their  seed  corn.  Only  large  and  perfect 
ears  were  chosen.  The  best  ear  for  seed  was  the  eeteeshahdupadee,1 
or  muffled-head,  so  called  because  the  kernels  cover  the  cob  quite  to 
the  tip,  making  the  ear  look  like  an  Indian  with  his  head  muffled  up 
in  his  robe. 

Page  36, 1.14:  “Wooden  bowl.”  In  olden  days  almost  every 
family  owned  several  of  these  feast  bowls.  A large  knot  was  split 
out  of  a tree  trunk  with  wedges  and,  after  being  hollowed  out  with 
fire,  was  slowly  carved  into  shape  with  Hint  tools.  Some  of  these  bowls 
are  beautiful  examples  of  carving. 

Page  37,  l.  16:  “Trying  to  parch  an  car  of  corn.”  Parched  corn 
entered  largely  into  the  diet  of  our  corn  raising  Indians.  Among 
eastern  tribes,  a warrior  set  forth  on  a long  journey  with  a sack  of 
parched  corn  pounded  to  a meal.  When  hungry,  he  swallowed  a 
spoonful  of  the  parched  meal,  washing  it  down  with  a pint  of  water. 
In  a short  time  the  meal  had  absorbed  the  water,  filling  the  stomach 
with  a digestible  mass  like  mush. 

Every  farmer’s  lad  should  put  away  some  ears  of  ripened  sweet 
corn  in  the  fail,  to  parch  of  a winter's  evening.  Sweet  corn  was  raised 
by  the  Hidatsas  and  Mandans  lor  parching  only. 

Page  38,  l.  21 : “Ground  beans,”  or  hog  peanut;  am phicar pa falcata. 
These  beans,  like  peanuts,  are  borne  under  ground. 

Page  38,  1.22:  “Wild  potatoes,”  or  Jerusalem  artichoke.  Roots  of 
helianthus  tubcrosus,  a plant  of  the  sunflower  family. 

Page  41,  l.  25:  “Who  had  been  a black  bear.”  Tradition  has  it 
that  the  art  and  mysteries  of  trapping  eagles  were  taught  the  Hidatsas 
by  the  black  bears.  An  eagle  hunters’  camp  was  conducted  as  a kind 
of  symbolic  play,  the  hunters  acting  the  ceremonies  of  the  delivery 
to  the  Indians  of  the  eagle-hunt  mysteries. 

Page  44,  l.  17:  “Earth  lodges  well-built  and  roomy.”  The  earth 
lodge  of  the  Mandans  and  Hidatsas  was  the  highest  example  of  the 
building  art  among  our  plains  tribes.  Some  of  these  lodges  were 
quite  large,  having  a height  of  eighteen  feet  or  more,  and  a floor  diam- 
eter exceeding  sixty  feet.  Usually  two  or  more  families  of  relatives 
inhabited  the  same  lodge. 

An  earth  lodge  had  four  large  central  posts  and  beams,  support- 
ing the  roof;  twelve  surrounding  posts  and  beams,  supporting  the 
eaves;  and  a hundred  rafters.  The  roof  was  covered  with  a matting 
of  willows  over  which  was  laid  dry  grass  and  a heavy  coating  of  earth. 

An  earth  lodge  lasted  but  about  ten  years,  when  it  was  abandoned 
or  rebuilt.  The  labor  of  building  and  repairing  these  imposing  struc- 
tures, especially  in  days  when  iron  tools  were  unknown  and  posts 
and  beams  had  to  be  burned  to  proper  lengths,  must  have  been  severe. 

When  the  author  first  visited  Fort  Berthold  reservation  in  1906, 
there  were  eight  earth  lodges  still  standing;  in  1918  there  were  two. 

Jee  tee  sha  du'  pa  dee 


180 


WAHEENEE 


Page  47,1.  18:  ‘‘An  earthen  pot.”  The  potter’s  craft  was  prac- 
ticed professionally  by  certain  women  who  had  purchased  the  secrets 
of  the  art.  The  craft  was  an  important  one,  as  much  of  Hidatsa  cook- 
ing was  by  boiling.  Some  of  the  earthen  boiling  pots  held  as  much 
as  two  gallons.  A collection  of  earthen  pots,  fired  in  1910  by  Hides- 
and-Eats,  a Mandan  woman  nearly  ninety  years  old,  is  in  the  American 
Museum  of  Natural  History. 

Page  49,  1. 18:  ‘‘From  her  cache  pit.”  The  cache  pit  was  a jug- 
shaped pit  within  or  without  the  lodge,  six  or  eight  feet  deep.  It 
was  floored  with  willow  sticks  and  its  walls  were  lined  with  dry  grass. 
It  was  used  to  store  the  fall  harvest. 

Strings  of  braided  ears  were  laid  in  series  against  the  wall.  Within 
these  was  poured  the  threshed  grain,  in  which  were  buried  strings  of 
dried  squash  and  sacks  of  beans  and  sunflower  seed.  Buffalo-Bird 
Woman  says  there  were  five  cache  pits  in  use  in  her  father’s  family. 

Many  families  had  a cache  pit  within  the  lodge  to  serve  as  a cellar- 
Besides  corn  for  immediate  use,  it  held  sacks  of  dried  berries,  prairie 
turnips,  packages  ol  dried  meat  and  even  bladders  of  marrow  fat.t 

The  pits  without  the  lodge  with  their  stores  of  grain  were  care- 
fully sealed  with  slabs  and  grass,  over  which  were  trampled  earth  and 
ashes.  This  was  done  to  conceal  the  pits  from  any  Sioux  who  might 
come  prowling  around  when  the  tribe  was  away  in  winter  camp.  If 
a family  lacked  food  in  winter,  they  returned  to  their  summer  village 
and  opened  one  of  these  cache  pit  granaries  for  its  stores  of  corn. 

Page  49,  l.  31:  ‘‘Red  Blossom  pounded  the  parched  corn.. ..in  a corn 
mortar.”  The  corn  mortar,  or  hominy  pounder,  is  a section  of  a 
cottonwood  or  ash  trunk,  hollowed  out  by  fire.  The  pestal  is  of  ash. 
The  mortar  was  sunk  in  the  floor  of  the  earth  lodge  and  covered,  when 
not  in  use,  by  a flat  stone. 

Corn  mortars  are  still  used  by  the  Hidatsas.  Our  grandmothers 
in  pioneer  days  also  used  them. 

Page  51,  l.  4:  “Chief.”  A Hidatsa  chief,  as  explained,  was  not 
necessarily  a tribal  officer.  His  position  was  like  that  of  an  influential 
citizen  of  a country  village,  who  is  often  a member  of  the  local  school 
or  hospital  board,  is  chosen  to  preside  at  patriotic  meetings,  and  is 
expected  to  extend  hospitality  and  charity  to  those  in  need. 

Hospitality,  indeed,  is  the  Indian’s  crowning  virtue.  In  tribal 
days,  when  one  had  food,  all  had  food;  when  one  starved,  all  starved. 
A reservation  Indian  does  not  like  to  take  pay  for  a meal,  especially 
from  one  of  his  own  race;  and  he  can  not  comprehend  how  any  white 
man  having  food  can  let  another  go  hungry. 

His  hospitality  is  often  a hindrance  to  the  Indian’s  progress. 
Indolent  Indians  eat  up  the  food  stores  of  industrious  relatives. 

Page  56,  1. 14:  “Dried  meat  pounded  fine  and  mixed  with  marrow 
fat.”  This  was  regarded  as  a delicate  dish.  Old  people  especially  were 
fond  of  it.  The  plains  Indians  usually  had  sound  teeth,  but  their 
coarse  diet  wore  the  teeth  down  so  that  old  men  found  it  hard  to  eat 
dried  meat  unless  it  was  thus  pounded  to  shreds.  Marrow  fat  was 
used  much  as  we  use  butter. 


EXPLANATORY  NOTES 


181 


Page  57,  l.  1:  “A  doll,  woven  of  rushes.”  Very  good  mats  were 
also  woven  of  rushes. 

Page  58,  l.  4:  “Tossing  in  a blanket.”  The  blanket  tossing  game 
has  been  found  among  widely  separated  peoples.  In  Don  Quixote, 
we  are  told  how  Sancho  Panza  unwilling  participated  in  the  game. 

Page  66,  l.  6 “Every  Hidatsa  belonged  to  a clan.”  The  clan 
was,  nevertheless,  relatively  weak  among  the  Hidatsas,  its  functions 
apparently  having  been  usurped  at  least  in  part  by  the  age  societies. 
(The  Black  Mouths  were  an  age  society.  See  chapter  V). 

In  many  tribes  a man  was  forbidden  to  marry  within  his  clan. 

Page  68,  1.25:  “He  was  a great  medicine  man.”  The  story  of 
Snake  Head-Ornament  is  a good  example  of  the  tales  told  of  the  old 
time  medicine  men.  Snake  Head-Ornament’s  friendship  for  the  bull 
snake  would  seem  uncanny  even  to  a white  man. 

Page  73,  l. 1:  “In  old  times  we  Indian  people  had  no  horses.” 

At  the  time  of  America’s  discovery  the  Indians  had  domesticated 
the  llama  in  the  Peruvian  highlands;  the  guinea  pig,  raised  for  food 
by  many  South  American  tribes;  turkeys,  and  even  bees,  in  Mexico; 
dogs,  developed  from  wolves  or  coyotes,  were  universally  domesticated 
among  the  North  American  tribes. 

Indian  dogs  were  used  as  watch  dogs  and  as  beasts  of  burden. 
Dog  flesh  was  eaten  by  many  tribes.  An  edible,  hairless  variety  of 
dog,  bred  by  the  Mexican  Indians  has  become  extinct. 

Page  77 , l.  23:  “My  grandmother  brought  in  some  fresh  sage.” 
The  sage  was  a sacred  plant. 

Page  81,1.  10;  “Our  dogs  dragged  well-laden  travois.”  Older 
Indians  say  that  a well-trained  dog  could  drag  a load  of  eighty  pounds 
on  a travois. 

Page  85,  l.  6:  “The  big  tendon we  Indians  call  the  eetsuta."1 

When  dried  this  tendon  becomes  hard,  like  horn;  and  arrow  points 
and  even  arrow  shafts  were  carved  from  it. 

Page  87,  l.  32:  “Coyote  Eyes,  a Ree  Indian.”  The  Rees,  or  Arikaras, 
are  an  offshoot  of  the  Pawnee  tribe,  whose  language  they  speak.  They 
removed  to  Fort  Berthold  reservation  and  settled  there  with  the 
Hidatsas  and  Mandans  in  1862. 

Page  92,  l.  7 : “To  embroider  with  quills  of  gull.”  The  tribe  used 
to  make  annual  jouneys  to  the  lakes  near  Minot,  North  Dakota, 
where,  older  Indians  say,  the  gulls  nested.  The  feathers  were  gathered 
along  the  beach.  The  quill  was  split,  the  flat  nether  half  being  the 
part  used.  Quills  were  dyed  with  native  vegetable  colors. 

Page  99,  1. 10:  “Bear  Man  was  an  eagle  hunter.”  The  tail  feathers 
of  the  golden  eagle  were  much  worn  by  all  the  plains  tribes.  These 
feathers,  in  eagles  under  two  years  of  age,  are  of  a pure  white,  with 
dark  brown  or  black  tips,  and  were  much  prized.  Eagle  hunting  was 
a highly  honored  occupation. 

Page  112,  l.  17:  “The  huskers  came  into  the  field  yelling  and  sing- 
ing.” Buffalo-Bird  Woman  laughingly  adds,  that  the  yelling  was  by 
young  men  who  wanted  their  sweethearts  to  hear  their  voices. 

^et  su'  ta 


182 


IVAHEENEE 


Page  114,1-2:  “The  hollow  buffalo  hoofs  rattled.”  The  earth 
lodge  door  was  a heavy  buffalo  skin,  stretched  when  green  on  a frame 
of  light  poles.  It  was  swung  from  the  beam  above  by  heavy  thongs. 
The  puncheon  fire  screen  stood  between  it  and  the  fireplace,  about 
which  the  family  sat  or  worked.  As  the  moccasined  tread  of  a visitor 
made  little  noise,  a bunch  or  two  of  buffalo  hoofs  was  hung  to  a bar 
running  across  the  middle  of  the  door. 

The  hoof  was  prepared  by  boiling  and  removing  the  pith.  Its 
edges  were  then  trimmed  and  a hole  was  cut  in  the  toe.  Through 
this  hole  a thong  was  run  with  a knotted  end,  to  keep  the  hoof  from 
slipping  off.  As  the  door  dropped  after  an  entering  visitor,  the  hollow 
hoofs  fell  together  with  a clittering  noise,  warning  the  family. 

Page  118,  l.  28:  “Hanging  Stone.”  A literal  translation  of  the 
Hidatsa  word.  It  refers  to  a form  of  war  club,  a short  stick,  from  an 
end  of  which  swung  a stone  sewed  in  a piece  of  skin. 

Page  125,  l.  3:  “With  ankles  to  the  right,  as  Indian  women  sit.” 
A warrior  sat  Turkish  fashion,  or,  often,  squat-on-heels.  An  Indian 
woman  sat  with  feet  to  the  right  unless  she  vvas  left-handed,  when 
feet  were  to  the  left. 

Page  125,  l.  6:  “Mixed  with  marrow  fat.”  Marrow  fat  was  ob- 
tained by  boiling  the  crushed  bones  of  a buffalo  in  a little  water.  The 
yellow  marrow  as  it  rose  was  skimmed  off  and  stored  in  bladders  or 
short  casings  made  of  entrails,  like  sausage  casings. 

Page  126,  l.  10:  “I  have  come  to  call  you.”  Buffalo-Bird  Woman 
means  that  her  father  invited  his  son-in-law  to  come  and  live  in  his 
earth  lodge.  If  he  had  not  sent  this  invitation,  the  young  couple 
would  have  set  up  housekeeping  elsewhere. 

Page  128,  l.  37:  “Only  a strong,  well-fed  pony  could  go  all  day  on 
wet  ground.”  Nature  designed  the  solid  hoof  of  the  horse  for  a prairie 
or  semidesert  country.  A pony  finds  it  hard  to  withdraw  his  hoof  in 
wet  spongy  soil,  and  soon  tires.  A deer  or  buffalo,  with  divided  hoof, 
runs  upon  wet  ground  with  comparative  ease.  Every  farmer’s  boy 
knows  that  an  ox  will  walk  through  a swamp  in  which  a horse  will  mire. 

Page  142,  1.26:  “With  two  fingers  crooked  like  horns,  the  sign  for 
buffaloes.”  So  many  languages  were  spoken  by  our  Indian  tribes, 
that  they  found  it  necessary  to  invent  a sign  language  so  that  Indians, 
ignorant  of  each  other’s  speech,  could  converse.  A well-trained  deaf 
mute  and  an  old  plains  Indian  can  readily  talk  together  by  signs. 

Page  143,  l.  4:  “Creeping  up  the  coulees.”  A coulee  in  the  Dakotas 
is  a grassy  ravine,  usually  dry  except  in  spring  and  autumn,  and  after 
a heavy  rain. 

Page  157,  1. 19:  “They  starved,  because  they  are  hunters  and  raise 
no  corn.”  The  Hidatsas  and  Mandans  as  agriculturists  felt  themselves 
superior  to  the  hunting  tribes.  Small-Ankle  refers  here  to  the  west- 
ern, or  Teton,  Sioux.  The  eastern  Sioux  were  corn  raisers. 

Page  158,  1. 10:  “My  mothers  and  I were  more  than  a week  thresh- 
ing.” In  the  summer  of  1912,  the  author  had  Buffalo-Bird  Woman 
pace  off  on  the  prairie  the  size  of  her  mothers’  field,  as  she  recollected 
it.  It  measured  one  hundred  and  ninety  yards  in  length  by  ninety 
yards  in  width.  Such  were  some  of  the  fields  which  in  olden  days 
were  cultivated  with  wooden  sticks  and  bone  hoes. 


SUPPLEMENT 


HOW  TO  MAKE  AN  INDIAN  CAMP 


Young  Americans  who  wish  to  grow  up  strong  and  healthy  should 
live  much  out  of  doors;  and  there  is  no  pleasanter  way  to  do  this  than 
in  an  Indian  camp.  Such  a camp  you  can  make  yourself,  in  your 
back  yard  or  an  empty  lot  or  in  a neighboring  wood. 

The  Lodge 

Buffalo-Bird  Woman  has  told  us  of  the  earth  lodges  of  her  people. 
They  were  for  permanent  abode.  Hunters,  however,  camping  but  a 
day  or  two  in  a place,  usually  put  up  a pole  hunting  lodge. 

Four  forked  poles  were  stacked,  as  in  Figure  1. 


Figure  1 


Figure  2 


Around  these  in  a circle,  other  poles  were  laid,  as  in  Figure  2,  for 
a frame. 

For  cover  buffalo  skins,  bound  together  at  the  edges,  were  drawn 
around  the  frame  in  two  series,  the  lower  series  being  laid  first.  The 
peak  of  the  pole  frame  was  left  uncovered,  to  let  out  the  smoke. 

Instead  of  buffalo  skins,  gunny  sacks  may  be  used,  fastened  at 
the  edges  with  safety  pins  or  with  wooden  skewers;  or  strips  of  canvas 
or  carpet  may  be  used.  Three  or  four  heavier  poles  may  be  laid 
against  the  gunny-sack  cover  to  stay  it  in  place. 

The  door  may  be  made  of  a gunny  sack,  hung  on  a short  pole. 

Indians  often  raised  a piece  of  skin  on  a forked  pole  for  a shield, 
to  keep  the  wind  from  driving  the  smoke  down  the  smoke  hole. 


183 


184 


WAHEENEE 


Figure  3 shows  the  finished  lodge  with  gunny-sack  cover,  door, 
and  wind  shield.  The  last  is  made  of  a piece  of  oil  cloth. 


Figure  3 


Booth 


Buffalo-Bird  Woman  tells  of  the  booth  which  Turtle  made  in  her 
cornfield.  A booth  is  easily  made  of  willows  or  long  branches. 

A short  digging  stick  will  be  needed.  This  was  of  ash,  a foot  or 
two  in  length,  sharpened  at  one  end  by  burning  in  a fire.  The  point 
was  often  rubbed  with  fat  and  charred  over  the  coals  to  harden  it. 
(Such  a digging  stick  was  not  the  kind  used  for  cultivating  corn.) 


Figure  5 


Figure  6 


SUPPLEMENT 


185 


If  you  have  no  ash  stick,  a section  of  a broom  handle  will  do 

With  a stone,  drive  the  digging  stick  four  inches  in  the  ground, 
as  in  Figure  4.  Withdraw  digging  stick  and  repeat  until  you  have 
six  holes  set  in  a circle.  The  diameter  of  the  circle  should  be  about 
five  feet. 

Into  the  six  holes  set  willows,  or  branches,  five  or  six  feet  high, 
as  in  Figure  5. 

Weave  or  bind  tops  together  so  as  to  make  a leafy  roof,  or  shade, 
as  in  Figure  6.  For  binding,  use  strips  of  elm  bark;  or  slender  willows, 
twisted,  so  as  to  break  the  fibers. 

Fireplace 

Indians,  when  journeying,  made  the  campfire  outside  the  lodge 
in  summer;  inside  the  lodge,  in  winter.  Usually  a slight  pit  was  dug 
for  the  fireplace,  thus  lessening  danger  of  sparks,  setting  fire  to  prairie 
or  forest.  The  fire  was  smothered  with  earth  when  camp  was  for- 
saken. 


Indians  broiled  fresh  meat  on  a stick  thrust  in  the  ground  and 
leaning  over  the  coals.  Often  a forked  stick  was  cut.  the  meat  was 
laid  on  the  prongs,  and  it  was 
held  over  the  coals  until  broiled. 

In  Figures  7 and  8 both  methods 
are  shown. 

Drying  Meat 

Buffalo-Bird  Woman  often 
speaks  of  dried  buffalo  meat. 

If  you  want  to  know  what  it 
was  like,  cut  a steak  into  thin 
pieces,  and  dry  on  a stage  of 
green  sticks,  three  feet  high.  This  may  be  done  in  the  sun;  or,  a small 
fire  may  be  made  beneath,  to  smoke  as  well  as  dry  the  meat.  In 


186 


WAHEENEE 


Figures  9 and  10  two  forms 
of  drying  stage  are  shown. 


Figure  10 


Cooking  Dried  Meat 

A pail  or  small  bucket 
will  do  for  kettle.  It  should 
be  swung  from  a tripod  by 
stick-and-thong,  as  in  Fig- 
ure 11.  Put  in  dried  meat 
with  enough  water  to  cover, 
and  bring  to  a boil.  The 
broth  may  be  used  as  the 
Indians  used  it,  for  a drink. 


Parching  Corn 

Ripe  sweet  corn,  thoroughly  dried,  is  best  for  parching;  but  field 
corn  will  do  nearly  as  well.  Drop  a handful  of  the  shelled  corn  in  a 
skillet  with  a little  butter.  Cover  skillet  and  set  on  the  fire.  Shake 
skillet  from  side  to  side  to  keep  corn  from  scorching. 

In  the  earth  lodge,  Hidatsa  women  parched  the  grain  in  an  earthen 
pot,  stirring  it  with  a stick.  Indian  boys,  when  out  herding  horses, 


often  carried  two  or  three  ears  of  corn  for  lunch.  An  ear  was  parched 
by  thrusting  a stick  into  the  cob,  and  holding  it  over  the  coals,  as  in 
Figure  12. 

A steak  broiled  Indian  fashion  over  the  coals,  or  a kettle  of  boiled 
dried  meat,  with  a cupful  of  parched  corn,  will  make  just  such  a meal 
as  Indians  often  ate. 


r 


HINTS  TO  YOUNG  CAMPERS 


Do  not  throw  away  bits  of  unused  food,  but  burn  or  bury  them. 
Unless  thus  destroyed,  the  decaying  food  will  attract  insects,  which 
often  bring  disease.  Bury  all  tin  cans. 

Potatoes  may  be  kept  fresh  as  in  your  cellar  by  burying  them  in 
loose  earth  or  sand. 

Hang  out  your  blankets  and  bed  clothing  to  be  aired  an  hour  or 
two  each  day,  preferably  in  the  morning. 

Indians  had  no  soap.  Indian  women  scoured  out  their  earthen 
cooking  pots  with  rushes.  You  may  clean  your  camp  kettle  and  pans 
in  the  same  way;  or,  if  no  rushes  can  be  found,  scour  with  coarse  grass 
dipped  in  wet  sand  or  sandy  mud,  and  drench  with  clean  water. 

Axes,  clothing,  shoes,  and  the  like  may  be  stored  out  of  the  way 
by  making  them  into  a long  bundle,  with  a cloth  or  thick  paper,  and 
lashing  them  to  one  of  the  upright  tent  poles  within  the  tent. 

Indian  children  were  fond  of  chewing  green  cornstalks,  for  the 
sweet  juice  they  contained.  If  your  camp  is  near  a cornfield  about 
the  time  the  corn  is  in  milk,  you  will  find  the  chewed  stalks  almost  as 
sweet  as  some  varieties  of  sugar  cane. 


187 


INDIAN  COOKING 

Young  people  often  wonder  what  Indian  cooking  is  like,  and 
groups  of  them — as  a class  in  Sunday  school  or  day  school — may  like 
to  eat  a meal  of  Indian  foods.  Following  are  a few  common  Hidatsa 
dishes.  Usually,  but  one  kind  of  food  was  eaten  at  a single  meal 

Madapozhee  Eekteea1,  or  Boiled  Whole  Corn 

Pour  three  pints  of  water  into  a kettle  and  set  on  the  fire.  Drop  in 
a pint  of  shelled  field  corn,  a handful  of  kidney  beans  and  a lump*  of 
suet  the  size  of  an  egg.  Boil  until  the  corn  kernels  burst  open. 

Manakapa2,  or  Mush 

Put  a pint  of  shelled  field  corn  into  a canvas  cloth,  and  with  ax  or 
stone  pound  to  a coarse  meal ; or  the  corn  may  be  ground  in  a coffee  mill. 
To  this  meal  add  a handful  of  kidney  beans,  and  boil  in  two  pints  of 
water.  The  Hidatsa  mortar  for  pounding  corn  into  meal  is  shown  in 
cut  on  page  156. 

Dried,  or  Jerked,  Meat 

Cut  some  beefsteak,  round  or  sirloin,  into  thin  strips.  Dry  the  strips 
on  a stage  of  small  poles  (see  cut  on  page  141)  in  the  open  air  or  over  a 
slow  fire,  or  in  the  kitchen  oven,  until  brittle  and  hard.  Meat  thus 
dried  could  be  kept  for  months.  Warriors  and  hunters  often  ate 
jerked  meat  raw  or  toasted  over  a fire.  In  the  lodge,  it  was  more  often 
boiled  a few  minutes  to  soften  it;  and  the  broth  was  drunk  as  we  drink 
coffee.  (See  also  “Drying  Meat”,  page  185.) 

Pemmican 

Take  strips  of  beef,  dried  as  described  above,  and  pound  them  to 
shreds  between  two  hard  stones.  Put  the  shredded  mass  in  a bowl,  and 
pour  over  it  a little  marrow  fat  from  a boiled  soup  bone,  or  some  melted 
butter. 

Corn  Balls 

The  Hidatsas  raised  sweet  corn  for  parching.  Hunters  often 
carried  a pouch  of  the  parched  grain  for  a lunch.  Parched  ripe  sweet 
corn  was  often  pounded  to  a fine  meal,  kneaded  with  lumps  of  hot 
roasted  suet,  and  rolled  between  the  palms  into  little  lumps,  or  balls, 
the  size  of  one’s  thumb. 

Hidatsa  custom  did  not  permit  a woman  to  speak  to  her  son-in-law; 
but  she  often  showed  her  love  for  him  by  making  him  a bowl  of  corn 

balls. 


•Ma  da  pb'  zhee  Eek  tee'  a 2Ma'  na  ka  pa 

188 


EDITOR’S  NOTE 

Surrounded  by  the  powerful  and  hostile  Sioux,  the  two  little 
Hidatsa  tribes  were  compelled  to  keep  relatively  close  to  their  stock- 
aded villages  and  cornfields,  which,  however,  they  most  sturdily  de- 
fended. Their  weakness  proved  a blessing.  The  yearly  crops  of  their 
cornfields  were  a sure  protection  against  famine,  and  in  their  crowded 
little  villages  was  developed  a culture  that  was  remarkable.  The 
circular  earth  lodges  of  the  Mandans  and  Hidatsas  represent  the  high- 
est expression  of  the  house-building  art  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Three  members  of  Small  Ankle’s  family  are  now  living:  Small 
Ankle’s  son,  Wolf  Chief,  his  daughter,  Waheenee,  or  Buffalo-Bird 
Woman,  and  her  son,  Good  Bird,  or  Goodbird.  Goodbird  was  the 
first  Indian  of  his  tribe  to  receive  u common  school  education.  Like 
many  Indians  he  has  a natural  taste  for  drawing.  Several  hundred 
sketches  by  him,  crude  but  spirited  and  in  true  perspective,  await 
publication  by  the  Museum. 

Goodbird’s  mother,  Waheenee,  is  a marvelous  source  of  informa- 
tion of  old-time  life  and  belief.  Conservative,  and  sighing  for  the  good 
old  times,  she  is  aware  that  the  younger  generation  of  Indians  must 
adopt  civilized  ways.  Ignorant  of  English,  she  has  a quick  intelligence 
and  a memory  that  is  marvelous.  The  stories  in  this  book,  out  of  her 
own  life,  were  told  by  her  with  other  accounts  of  scientific  interest  for 
the  Museum.  In  the  sweltering  heat  of  an  August  day  she  has  con- 
tinued dictation  for  nine  hours,  lying  down  but  never  flagging,  when 
too  weary  to  sit  longer  in  a chair.  She  is  approximately  83  years  old. 

The  stories  in  this  book  are  true  stories,  typical  of  Indian  life. 
Many  of  them  are  exactly  as  they  fell  from  Waheenee’s  lips.  Others 
have  been  completed  from  information  given  by  Goodbird  and  Wolf 
Chief,  and  in  a few  instances  by  other  Indians.  The  aim  has  been  not 
to  give  a biography  of  Waheenee,  but  a series  of  stories  illustrating 
the  philosophy,  the  indian-thinking  of  her  life. 

In  story  and  picture,  therefore,  this  book  is  true  to  fact  and  be- 
comes not  only  a reader  of  unusual  interest  but  a contribution  to  the 
literature  of  history  and  of  anthropology.  The  author  and  the  artist 
have  expressed  and  portrayed  customs,  places,  and  things  that  are 
purely  Indian  and  perfect  in  every  detail. 


189 


NED  DAWSON 

IN  WILFUL  LAND 


BY 

JAMES  LEE  ORR 

very  fascinating  realistic 


LV  story  characteristic  of  boys, 
written  in  allegorical  style  and 
impressing  a splendid  moral  les- 
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tary reading. 


Cloth,  illustrated,  80  cents 

Webb  Publishing  Company 

Saint  Paul,  Minn. 


Rules  of  Order 

FOR  EVERY-DAY  USE 

and 

Civil  Government 

. MADE  PLAIN 

HENRY  SLADE  GOFF 


Parliamentary  Procedure  Simplified 
With  a Graphic  Explanation  and  Tabular 
Illustration  of  Local,  State  and 
National  Institutions 


Cloth,  116  pages,  75  cents. 


WEBB  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

SAINT  PAUL,  MINN. 


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